


In Blood And Silence You Speak The Truth

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action, Angst, Aramis is a good field medic, Athos Whump, Athos is even quieter than usual, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, OC, Porthos is worried, Swordfighting, Treville cameo, a bit of plot as a poor excuse for shameless Athos whump, d'Artagnan has a good idea, the Mother Superior makes a reappearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-09-18 05:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 42,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: “Athos! You alright? Athos!”Athos wants to tell Porthos that he thinks his face is cleft in half (can he not see that it is?!) and that the world is not holding still long enough for him to even lift his head. But just the thought of opening his mouth, of forming words is enough to make him want to throw up again, so he just stays where he is, swaying on hands and knees, head bowed, blood dripping from his beard, and he moans some more.- 2019-05-25: Epilogue went up today. Which means that this story is now completed. It’s been quite the journey. -





	1. The Ambush

The ice-covered forest would be beautiful, were it not so bitterly cold. Under a painfully blue sky, the trees are skeletons laden with snow, crystals glittering in the sun. Their horses’ hooves crunch through the frozen snow - the only audible sound as the musketeers are making their way back to Paris, huddled deep into their cloaks, hats pulled low to shield their faces from the wind.

With a click of his tongue, Porthos speeds up his mount to catch up with their lieutenant. Athos, as always, has taken the lead. He has been so quiet, swaying rhythmically to the trot of his black stallion, that Porthos wonders if he has fallen asleep.

“Athos.”

“What.” His reply, muffled through the scarf he has pulled over his face, is toneless.

“Think we could take a break? Light a fire, eat somethin’, warm up? It’s still half a day’s ride to the garrison, and d’Artagnan looks like ‘e’s about to fall off ‘is horse.”

Athos turns in his saddle, his pale eyes barely visible between hat and scarf. Squinting against the brightness, he studies the youngest musketeer riding behind them, half asleep and shivering. Then Athos looks at the sky, apparently calculating time, daylight hours and distance left against the resilience of his comrades.

“Alright,” he decides in his usual, cool voice. “One hour.”

Porthos grins, already envisioning the warmth of a fire and possibly a few minutes of sleep. “HALT,” he yells at the other two, startling Aramis from his frozen stupor and d’Artagnan’s horse into a frightened little jump. “Dismount! We’re takin' a break!”

#### xxx

They hear them coming, but it is too late. There is nowhere to hide, not enough time to get on their horses. What irony that the clandestine band of highwaymen sneaking up on them is exactly who they have been looking for - unsuccessfully - for the last five days. Just when the musketeers have decided to abort the mission and return to the city, Henri Caval and his men find _them_.

The snow mutes the sounds of their approach, and they have learned to blend into the countryside they inhabit, robbing travellers and disappearing back into the woods for weeks now, leaving behind looted carriages and bodies with their throats slit and their eyes wide open in terminal surprise.

Aramis is on watch while Porthos and d’Artagnan are asleep, huddled close to the campfire, and Athos _appears_ to be dozing, quiet and unmoving underneath his cloak and hat, but, in all likelihood, wide awake. 

Somewhere, in the near distance, between the trees, something shifts. Then, the snap of a twig.

Aramis pulls one of the pistols from his belt.

“Athos?”

“I heard it.” 

Athos already has his own pistol in hand, its muzzle peeking out from beneath the folds of his cloak. Aramis hasn’t even seen him move.

Quietly, they listen for further sounds. And they come. The barely perceptible crunch of footfalls in the snow. The low nickering of a horse. Brown shapes flit between the dense firs around them, coming closer.

“Do you think it’s them?” Aramis whispers.

“Possibly,” Athos whispers back, his cool eyes scanning the treeline. “Wake d’Artagnan and Porthos. Quickly and quietly.”

“Horses?” Aramis is automatically reverting to the shorthand they use in battle. 

“Not enough time. They’ll be upon us before we’ve saddled them.” 

They have given their tired, sweating mounts a reprieve from their saddles and baggage, wiped them them down and tied them to a tree where they are still dozing, covered merely by their saddlecloths.

“Wha-”

“Ssshhhh!” Aramis clamps his hand over Porthos’ mouth, placing a finger over his own lips as the big man’s eyes find his, instantly alert. “Enemies approaching,” Aramis hisses. “Could be Caval and his men. Get ready. D’Artagnan!” Aramis turns to their youngest who jerks awake when he touches his face and receives the same treatment as Porthos before. 

“Stay close to Porthos,” Aramis admonishes him. “Remember your training.”

D’Artagnan stares at Aramis, wide-eyed, then looks at Athos.

His lieutenant gives him a stern nod. “Head over heart,” Athos reminds him. “Time to prove we taught you right.”

As a dozen figures suddenly crash through the trees and haul themselves at them, screaming, four musketeer pistols go off in unison, followed by the metallic whoosh of rapiers being unsheathed. 

Three attackers go down immediately, clutching at bullet holes in their bodies, never to get up again. A fourth scrambles back into the trees, leaving a trail of blood. Caval’s remaining men fire back. Porthos flinches as a musket ball digs into the tree beside him, peppering his cheek with splinters. Through the gunsmoke, he sees his brothers raise their swords, and he lifts his own blade to bring it down on a howling attacker, almost slicing him in half.

Being faced with at least two opponents each, they fight on instinct and muscle memory. There is no time to think. Block, thrust, parry. Lunge, swipe, kick. A fierce and bloody ballet is being performed in that glade, to the sounds of steel on steel, battle cries and shouts of pain. 

Roaring, Porthos clashes with a large man sporting an axe. To his right, Aramis is a blur of blades and brown leather, swiping at two men while pirouetting around them. To his left, Porthos sees d’Artagnan smack his empty pistol into one man’s face while deflecting a rapier from another. Athos dances past them, raining a panic-stricken highwayman with quick, efficient blows of his sword. Porthos almost grins as the duelling pair disappear into the trees, then he dispatches his own opponent with a neat slash of his main gauche. He barely has time to breathe before another man pops out of nowhere and flings himself at him.

_Are there even more than a dozen?_

####  xxx

 

Athos hears Porthos growl as he drives his own opponent deeper into the woods, separating him from his comrades. The man is no real match for him, and he finds himself almost _enjoying_ the fight and the fear in the highwayman’s eyes. But he has to end this, get back to his brothers. They’re all holding their own, and he does not doubt they can manage without his help, but d’Artagnan does not have a lot of experience and Athos feels responsible for the young musketeer. 

With a lunge and a quick step forward, he pins the highwayman’s rapier underneath his arm, bringing his own blade to the other one’s throat. For the fraction of a second, Athos stares into eyes begging for mercy, but this is neither the time nor the place for such a whim. A deft, clean slice, a spurt of blood, and the man crumples to the ground.

Too late, Athos senses someone move behind him. He pivots, rapier en garde, but all he sees is a darkly cloaked figure swinging the butt of a rifle at his face. The world explodes, then tilts. The snowy ground rises up to him. Then, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I'm ending this chapter right at the point where the whump should start. I apologize. But I felt this fic needed a bit of character establishment and a little action to justify the ensuing whump. Plus, I love seeing the Musketeers... well... _musketeer_. And I promise I won't keep you waiting for long. The next chapter is already written and will go up in a few days, in case anyone's interested. Stay tuned. Here be whump.
> 
> Also, I feel the need to confess that English is only my second language. In case it isn't obvious.


	2. Red, White and Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the ambush, the snow is tainted red and someone is forced into silence.

_Cold._

That is the first sensation that returns to him. Something cold is pressing up against his face. So cold, in fact, it _burns_. Ice. Fire. Both?

The next sensation is easier to identify. It arrives, no it _bursts_ into existence with a sickening, rhythmic throb.

_Ah, pain._

He clutches at his face, at the left side of it and tries to keep it from _exploding_ , because that is what it feels like. His eyes water as he opens them - the left one not really complying - and the world lurches and flickers. Nausea hits, and Athos breathes through what he realizes is a mixture of blood and ice melting on his face. He’s lying on his side, in the snow, trees dancing crazily around him, shapes shifting in-between, swords glinting, and his face - god, his _face_ \- is about to split open and spill his insides out onto the frozen forest ground. 

Gagging, he rolls onto his knees, gloved hands threatening to slip on the icy patch beneath him. Everything _spins_ , his stomach lurches, and he almost blacks out as he vomits, blood and bile forming a garrish pool in the snow.

Behind him, the sounds of fighting continue. Pistols firing, rapiers clashing. Shouting, grunting, bodies dropping to the ground. Athos thinks that he should get up. Find his rapier that’s clearly missing from his weapon’s belt. Or his pistol. He should fight. But his head feels twice its usual size, his vision is filled with starbursts, and when he opens his mouth again to expel a glob of congealing blood, he feels something in his jaw shift, bone grinding against bone, and, horrified, he clasps his hand against his face to keep it from falling apart. 

A shadow next to him, looming, lifting something. Athos instinctively rolls, hopefully out of the way of whatever weapon he has coming at him. The movement accelerates the carousel effect of his vision and he ends up on all fours, digging his fingers into the ground, desperately trying to anchor himself to a world spinning out of control. _Where is his attacker?_

A furious, thundering roar close to him - Porthos - followed by a thud and a dead weight dropping by his side. Athos blinks blood from his eyes and squints at the body. A brown cloak. Reddish hair. Not Porthos. 

“ATHOS!” 

_That_ is Porthos. 

Enormous and dark, Athos senses his musketeer brother kneeling beside him, feels his large hand on his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Athos! You alright? Athos!”

He feels fingers grab his chin, and he jerks away from the touch as new agony explodes in his face. Still on his knees, he hears himself moan.

“What is- Athos!”

Athos wants to tell Porthos that he thinks his face is cleft in half ( _can he not see that it is?!_ ) and that the world is not holding still long enough for him to even lift his head. But just the thought of opening his mouth, of forming words is enough to make him want to throw up again, so he just stays where he is, swaying on hands and knees, head bowed, blood dripping from his beard, and he moans some more.

“Jesus Chri- ARAMIS!”

 _Oh God._ Porthos’ booming shout cleaves through Athos' head. His vision greys around the edges, and he gasps, sputtering bloody mucus.

“What is it?”

Aramis’ voice now, worried but firm, as he crouches down in front of Athos, a blurry shape in brown and blue. 

“‘E’s not saying anything, Aramis. ‘is face is a mess. What’s wrong wi’ ‘im?”

“Athos?”

He feels the medic’s hands on his shoulders, gently guiding him up until he sits on his haunches. Porthos’ hands steady him from behind. Carefully, Aramis’ hands cradle the sides of his head and lift it. Athos bites back a groan. God, it _hurts_. 

“Athos, are you with me?”

With incredible effort, Athos focuses on Aramis’ face and finds his eyes, two questioning brown orbs in the flickering chaos. He blinks hard, hoping to convey his message without words.

“Alright. Good. There you are.” Aramis smiles and holds his gaze. “Can you talk?”

Athos carefully shakes his head and lifts a shaking hand towards his chin without touching it.

“Your mouth? Your jaw?” 

Athos nods, relieved that Aramis understands him. His friend carefully tilts his head upward and sideways, inspecting the damage. As far as Athos knows, the whole left side is a shattered and swollen mess. His left eye is closing, his cheek throbs, his jaw is apparently on fire and blood is still pooling in his mouth. At least the world has steadied and brightened a bit.

“Can you open your mouth? Just a little?”

Athos wants to shake his head again, but he knows Aramis needs to assess his injuries, and after all he has _some_ bravery left in him, a shred of that stoicism he’s made his trademark. _Can’t lose all of that now, can he?_

Balling his hands into fists in his lap, he parts his lips and immediately feels tears rush to his eyes, but he blinks them away with a little gasp. It _hurts_ , and it hurts even more when Aramis, sans glove, gently slips his index finger into his mouth and probes around inside. When he pulls it back out, Athos is all but ready to faint, damn his stoicism and all.

“I think he has a broken jaw.” Aramis sounds sombre. 

“Shit!” Porthos swears.

“Yes,” Aramis agrees. “And a deep gash on the inside of his cheek. That’s where all the blood is coming from.“ 

He’s retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and is carefully dabbing at Athos’ mouth.

“Also, my friend,” he continues in a woeful tone and places a comforting hand on Athos’ shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ve lost a tooth or two.”

Athos winces. Aramis is right. He feels a gap in the line of his molars and a ragged edge. So the bits of white swimming in his vomit were teeth, not shards of bone. That’s a small comfort. 

“What happened? Is it bad?”

Suddenly, d’Artagnan is in front of him as well, dropping to one knee, eyes darting from Athos to Aramis and back to Athos with an undisguised expression of alarm. Without looking, he sheaths his rapier, automatically wiping it with his gloved hand. Apparently, he’s been the one to dispatch their last opponent. The forest, Athos realizes, has fallen quiet again around them.

“Broke ‘is jaw,” Porthos grumbles, and Athos is glad he still has his brother’s hands against his back. Otherwise, he would no longer be upright. His vision has cleared, at least in his right eye, but he feels faint and, to be honest, a bit afraid. 

“And a concussion, most likely,” Aramis adds, his fingers now palpating the area around Athos’ eye. “This cut will need a few stitches. What did he hit you with? A club? Sword hilt?” Furious, Aramis flicks his head at the dead body a few feet away.

Instead of an answer, Athos huffs. It was the butt of a rifle, that much he remembers, but what does it matter? The damage is done and he will not waste the bit of energy he has left to try and mime the heavy weapon connecting with his face.

“Right”, Aramis concedes. “Can’t talk. And you shouldn’t try. Not until I’ve had a chance at tending to your wounds properly. We need to get you somewhere safe. Out of the cold. With better light.” 

From behind Athos, Porthos asks the same anxious question that is running through his own mind. “Can you fix ‘im? This? ‘Is jaw?”

Aramis isn’t looking Athos in the eyes as he answers. His gaze is focused on the site of the injury, studying it like a puzzle he’s been challenged to solve. 

“I hope so,” he says hesitantly. “I will certainly try.”

That is not what Athos wanted to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for the record - since I don't have an M.D., this fic will be horrendously medically incorrect. I did do a little research, but for the most part, I draw dramatic license.  
> And I sincerely apologize to Athos for damaging his beautiful face. *hangs head in shame*


	3. Helping Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting an update on Xmas Eve, when everyone - including me - is busy doing tons of other stuff. And there isn't even fluff. Probably not a a good idea. But I really couldn't just leave Athos sitting there, bleeding in the snow, could I?

Aramis tries to exude an air of confidence as he examines Athos in the dim light of the forest. Despite his horribly swollen and bloody face Athos is keeping up a brave front, but Aramis can feel him tremble underneath his touch, and it’s probably not just from the cold. Aramis can’t blame him. A broken jaw is a serious injury, and Aramis isn’t sure his limited medical skills will suffice to handle it.

“Do you think you can ride?” he asks softly.

A somewhat unfocussed but defiant stare meets his, accompanied by a nod that loosens a string of bloody saliva from Athos’ beard. 

“Good. If we can get you to Pa-”

“‘E’s never going to make it to Paris like this,” Porthos interrupts him gruffly. “Look at ‘im. He can’t handle three or four hours on a ‘orse, even if ‘e rides with one of us. It’s too cold. ‘E’s too injured, even if ‘e says ‘e isn’t. We need to find somethin’ somewhere close.” He sounds angry. He always does when he’s worried.

“I know where we can take him,” d’Artagnan cuts in brightly. 

Aramis turns around to look at their youngest, his steadying hand not leaving Athos’ shoulder.

“Where?”

“Saint Christian. The convent. Remember? Where you took the Queen after the assassination attempt. It’s not even an hour’s ride from here. And they’ll have medical supplies. And, if Aramis told us the truth, grape and honey brandy,” he adds, attempting an encouraging smile in Athos’ direction. 

He is awarded with one wearily quirked eyebrow.

Aramis slaps one hand against his forehead. “God, you’re right! It’s… why didn’t I think of that?!” The warmth of relief spreads through him. “d’Artagnan, you’re a genius. The sisters will provide us with all the help that we need. Get the horses ready.”

Still holding on to Athos, he looks around at the carnage and chaos they’ll be leaving behind.

“D’Artagnan”, he orders, turning to the Gascon. “Find Athos’ rapier and pistol! Gather what we need - more powder and musket balls, food if they have any. And Porthos, fetch me a blanket!”

With a nod, d’Artagnan hurries to comply. Porthos slowly steps away from Athos’ back, making sure his injured brother can hold himself upright, and stalks off to where their horses are tied and where their supplies are still scattered around a dying campfire.

Aramis turns his attention back on Athos.

“Now let’s see what we can do to make you a little more comfortable for the ride.” 

To his relief, Athos seems more alert now. Tremors are still running through his compact frame, and his breath is coming in uneven bursts - a staccato of pain and cold and shock - , but he is intently looking at Aramis and he keeps his balance when Aramis finally releases his shoulder. 

Usually, Athos refuses to let himself be affected by an injury, often outright ignoring their existence. It is not a question of pride, Aramis knows. Instead, it has to do with a disconcerting lack of self-care that Aramis still hasn’t managed to completely beat out of his lieutenant. As if on cue, he sees Athos pull himself straight and subdue the flickers of pain crossing over his face, even though this time, they both know, no amount of false bravado will disguise how badly he is wounded. 

Shifting his weapons belt, Aramis unties the sash wrapped around his waist.

“I’ll use this to splint your jaw,” he explains and gently hooks the silken fabric underneath Athos’ chin. “It’ll keep the broken bone from shifting as we ride. Let me know if it’s too tight.” He ties the sash at the crown of Athos’ head, pulling it tighter over his cheeks, until Athos, eyes firmly shut against the pain, emits a gasps and swats at his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis apologizes with all his heart. This is the part he hates most about being a medic - causing even more pain in order to alleviate it further down the line. “You alright?” He gives his friend a moment to breathe and waits for him to reopen his one good eye. When the cool green iris reappears under lashes now laced with frost and tears, he gives Athos a rueful smile.

“Hang in there, my friend. In a few weeks’ time, this’ll be nothing but one more adventurous story. Here, hold this.”

He presses his handkerchief against the cut on Athos’ brow and guide’s his brother’s gloved hand up to hold it there while he winds the remaining length of sash around his forehead and ties it at the back to keep everything in place.

“This’ll help with the swelling,” he says and tucks a handful of snow between the two layers of silk now covering Athos’ left cheek. Athos shudders.

“Cold?” Aramis asks. “Pain?”

Athos raises his trembling hands, holding up both index fingers and tapping them against each other.

_Both._

Aramis nods compassionately, surprised and worried that Athos actually admits to being in discomfort. “We’ll get you warmed up soon, and I’m sure Mother Superior has a good pain draught in her infirmary.”

“‘ere’s the blanket.” Porthos has returned, taken a little aback by the odd looking bandage around Athos’ head, but swallowing any remark. His big hands arrange the woolen blanket over Athos’ shoulders with surprising care. “And ‘ere’s ‘is hat.”

Aramis takes the brown felt hat, rearranges the somewhat dishevelled-looking feathers on it and places it on Athos’ head. With the brim casting his disfigured face into shadow and the makeshift bandage somewhat covered, Athos looks considerably less horrifying.

D’Artagnan arrives, all three horses in tow. Their supplies are bundled up and all strapped to the back of Athos’ black Frisian. It goes without saying that Athos will not be able to ride on his own. It is also clear that he will be riding with Porthos, the biggest and strongest of them and best suited to keep an incapacitated man on the back of a horse. The stallion whinnies nervously, still spooked from the fighting and sensing that something is wrong. D’Artagnan gives him a reassuring pat.

“I found his weapons.” He points to Athos’ elegantly engraved rapier and his pistol, safely tucked with their other supplies. “Are we good to go?” he asks, looking at Athos with an astonishing blend of concern, impatience and false cheerfulness. It must be staggering for the young musketeer, Aramis realizes, to see his mentor so incapacitated, and he is _really_ bad at hiding it. 

Aramis searches Athos’ face. “Are we?”

Athos takes a deep breath through his nose and, with a determined stare, grabs the hand that Aramis is offering him.

_Yes._

With Porthos’ strong arms lifting him up from behind, he gets his feet under him and stands. He is swaying a little, and Aramis sees him pale and blink heavily, but he stands. One supporting hand at his elbow, Aramis lets him walk the few steps to Porthos’ horse on his own, both to assess his balance and let him reclaim some of his dignity. No sound comes from Athos when, blanket and all, they wrangle him onto the brown gelding’s back where he clings to the saddle knob, face a grim mask, until Porthos settles his heavy frame behind him.

“Relax,” Porthos rumbles against his neck, picking up the reins with one hand as he wraps his other arm around Athos’ waist. “I’ve got you.”

Atop his own black thoroughbred, Aramis sidles up beside Porthos.

“Go slowly,” he advises him. “No trot, no cantering! His jaw cannot take the jostling, and we really don’t want to make his concussion any worse.” 

Porthos nods and coaxes his gelding into motion with a gentle forward shove of his hips. Athos stiffens but remains silent.

“And please,” Aramis adds quietly, leaning in so that, hopefully, only Porthos can hear him. “Don’t let him slip off that horse. He absolutely _cannot_ fall on that break, you hear me?” 

Another nod from Porthos, determined, dark-eyed and reassuring. Once more, his solidity and the sheer, protective bulk of him help calm Aramis’ nerves. 

D’Artagnan appears on Porthos’ other flank. He tries not to stare at Athos with his big, worried eyes, but he can’t quite help it. 

“Why don’t you take the lead, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says. 

“Me?” His eyebrows jump in surprise.

“Yes, you,” Aramis confirms. “You know the way to the convent. And you slept for an hour before we were ambushed. You’re probably the most rested and most attentive of us. Porthos has his hands full and I have to keep an eye on Athos. Go ahead. Take the lead.”

Too puzzled to be proud, d’Artagnan shakes his head, then heels his grey into a trot and follows the order he’s been given. With their nervous youngster out of the way and put to good use, Aramis casts another doubtful glance at Athos’ too-still, too-tense form between Porthos’ bracing arms, then he falls in line behind them. Looking up at the sky, white and heavy with more snow, he sends two silent prayers heavenwards. One for Athos, that God may ease his pain and help him heal. And one for himself, to let him perform a miracle. God knows they will need one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters are short, and the story progresses very slowly. But I'd rather update more often than write long chapters and leave things hanging for weeks. Hope this works for you guys.


	4. To the Convent

Merely a few minutes into the ride, and Athos is no longer sure which way is up. Although padded by the snow, each of the gelding’s footfalls sends a spike of pain up his jaw, reverberating in his skull. The swaying movement of the horse has turned his dizziness into vertigo. Nausea is swelling in his stomach. _No_ , he pleads, remembering his painful experience from earlier, _please don’t let me throw up._ He clenches his mouth shut and takes a few deep breaths through his nose. 

“Athos? You ‘righ’?” Porthos asks, his beard brushing Athos’ cheek as he tries to catch a look at him over his shoulder. “Somethin’ wrong?”

The back of Athos’ throat is starting to tingle. He swallows hard. Bitterness floods his mouth.

_I cannot be sick._

“If you need a break, we can-”

It’s too late. Frantically, Athos tugs at Porthos’ arm and bends over to the side, gagging. He fumbles for the bandage keeping his jaw closed and can’t get it loose. Bile fills his mouth, mixed with the blood he’s swallowed. Panic turns his legs into water, and he tilts sideways. 

“Whoa!” 

Yanking at the reins, Porthos brings his horse to an abrupt stop while clamping his arm tighter around Athos. He shifts, his other hand bracing Athos’ chest as he doubles over, his knees and thighs pinning Athos’ legs to the horse.

“Easy, easy!” Porthos voice is loud but firm, attempting to calm both the startled horse and Athos shuddering in his arms. “Hang on. I have you. Just-”

A strangled noise comes from Athos’ throat. He is choking.

“Aramis!”

“Here.” The marksman is beside them, already jumping off his horse. “We need him on the ground! Quickly! D’Artagnan, come here, help me!”

Voices. Not enough air. The sky capsizes, and Athos is falling. _Did Porthos really let him slip?_  
Hands catch him, and then he’s on the ground, being rolled onto his side. Someone holds his head and turns it, ripping the bandage off his chin. Breathe. He needs to _breathe_. He needs to open his mouth. He _cannot_ open his mouth. Coughing and choking, he squirms.

“Athos! Calm down!” Aramis. Close to his face. _Is he lying on the ground as well?_ “Hold stilI! I’m helping you. Don’t bite me!” 

Fingers between his lips, prising his jaw open. Athos gurgles a scream. Fingers in his mouth, scooping out the vile, congealed mass he’s choking on. 

_Don’t bite._

Somehow, he doesn’t.

Pain. Retching. Then it’s over. His cough subsides. His mouth is empty and closed again. There’s air, and he sucks it in through clenched teeth and a running nose. Aramis’ swims into focus in front of him, wiping his hand on his doublet. Behind him, hovering, d’Artagnan, eyes wide with fear.

“Is he…” he stutters. “Is he good? Is it over?”

Aramis bends low, angling his face to make eye contact with Athos, still on his side.

“Athos? Better?”

For a moment, Athos just closes his eyes, the snowy ground cool against the side of his head. He is exhausted. He is ashamed. He wants all of this to be over. Give him a bullet wound. Give him a slash across his torso, a broken arm or a cracked rib and he’ll just walk off and deal with it, by himself. But this, _this_ is becoming unbearable.

“Come on,” Aramis urges. “Look at me.” 

He doesn’t have a choice. Opening his eyes again, Athos schools his gaze into what he hopes is an annoyed glare. Aramis, _God bless him_ , meets it with a smile.

“There’s a good boy,” the medic says nonchalantly, ignoring Porthos’ exasperated chuff behind him. “Angry is better than unconscious.”

Athos pushes himself up on one elbow, away from the disgusting puddle underneath his cheek. Everything feels sticky and he suppresses the urge to wipe his hand across his beard. 

“Gave me a fright,” Porthos mutters darkly, reaching to help him up. “Next time, jus’ let me know somethin’s up. Slap me o’ pinch me, I don’ care. I almos’ let you fall, an’ Aramis would’ve killed me if I ‘ad.”

His gruff fondness centers Athos and he gratefully squeezes the strong arm now hauling him to his feet. It’s so much easier to handle than the pity and fear resonating from d’Artagnan, moving nervously out of the way as Aramis and Porthos guide him back to the gelding. 

“You’re not seriously putting him back on the horse,” the young Gascon says, incredulous. “He can’t ride. You saw what happened.”

“You have a better idea?” Aramis asks over his shoulder, sounding annoyed.

d’Artagnan shrugs, arms flung wide. “I don’t know. Get a cart from the convent. The two of you can stay with him, I can do it. I’ll be quick.”

“A cart. In this snow. On this terrain.” Aramis shakes his head. “Not a chance.” 

The rest of what he says to the young musketeer is drowned out by a new cloud of pain engulfing Athos as Aramis, still talking, swiftly rebandages his face and, with Porthos help, maneuvers him back on the horse. Once up there, Athos no longer cares what anyone is saying or doing. All of his attention narrows down to keeping his head still and his hands clasped to the saddle. They cannot stop again. If they have to take him off the horse one more time, Athos isn’t sure he has the strength to get back up.

 

####  xxx

 

Abrupt movement jolts Athos back to awareness. The gelding he’s still sat on is shaking its thick neck, shedding a layer of white from its coat, rekindling the the fire in Athos’ jaw. A small groan escapes him before he can shove it back down.

“Hey there.” Porthos’ voice is at his right ear. “You back with us?” 

Athos feels himself being shifted as Porthos adjusts his grip around him. He’s cold, his hands have slipped off the saddle knob, and he finds himself slumped against Porthos’ chest. Whether he’s been asleep or unconscious, he’s not sure. Embarrassed and confused, he sits up, lifting one hand in answer to Porthos’ question. Snow flutters from the brim of his hat. Through a curtain of thick flakes, he can barely see d’Artagnan riding up ahead, his grey merging with the landscape.

There is an awful taste in his mouth, his tongue thick against the inside of his swollen cheek, and he recognizes the headache and lag in perception he’s familiar with from earlier concussions. His jaw feels stiff and hot. He wants to ask how long he’s been out and how much further they will have to go, but he has no idea how and even turning around to look at Porthos feels like too much of an effort.

“We’re almost there,” Porthos says behind him, as if reading his mind. “You’ve been out for a while. ‘ad us a little worried, to be honest, but we didn’t want to stop an’ lose more time. You alrigh’?”

Of course he’s not, and they both know it, and yet Athos nods.

“Is he awake again?” 

Aramis has appeared beside them, anxiously leaning in to see.

“Jus’ came ‘round.”

“Athos,” Aramis asks, “can you look at me?”

Cautiously, Athos turns his head. He can see a little out of his left eye again. Perhaps the cold brought down the swelling a bit. When he meets Aramis’ gaze, he sees a gentle smile not quite covering the dismay underneath. He must be a sorry sight to perceive.

“How are you feeling, brother?” 

In reply, Athos makes an attempt at lifting the corner of his mouth into a smirk. It’s a terrible idea, and he pays for it with a sharp arrow of pain piercing from chin to temple. The smirk falters.

“Hang in there,” Aramis replies fondly, reaching out one hand to give Athos a pet on his thigh. “Not much longer now. We’re almost there.”

And as if summoned by their reassurances, through the flurrying snow, the convent rises up out of the forest, on top of the hill they’re slowly scaling. The fortified building looks dark and ominous in the winter storm, but Athos sags with relief. Just a few more minutes, and he can lie down, close his eyes and let Aramis fix him. 

The thought crosses his mind that it might be an illusion. That this is out of Aramis’ hands, capable as they may be. That he may not be able to speak, to eat, that he may actually die from this injury. But he is too cold, too exhausted and too numb from pain to linger on that thought, and Porthos’ arm looped safely around him feels too comforting to be afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my apologies to Athos for still not getting him out of the cold _and_ having him throw up again. The poor thing. But I had to follow up on Porthos being charged with keeping him on that horse. And, realistically, being jostled about on horseback with a concussion _will_ make things worse.  
> And I realize I have been neglecting d'Artagnan and his POV. For some reason, I find him the most difficult to write. All the more reason to practice. I promise, he will be the focus of a whole chapter. But for now, he has to stand back and let Aramis work.  
> Next up - out of the cold and into the convent's infirmary.


	5. Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as happy with this chapter as I'd like to be, but if I keep editing and rewriting it, it'll never go up. Also, writing a fic while remodelling parts of my house is a bit... challenging. If this isn't perfect, you know it's because I've written it with paint on my hands and sitting on yet-to-be-assembled IKEA furniture.

Once inside the courtyard of the convent, they are quickly surrounded by a throng of sisters, summoned by the young woman who’s let them in, recognizing the musketeers at once. Helpful hands reach out to help them off their horses, and Athos, engulfed by a flurry of brown cloaks and white caps, is efficiently ushered to the infirmary with the Mother Superior spearheading the procession.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis instructs the Gascon rushing to follow Athos. “Take care of the horses!”

“But…”

“Do as I say. Dry them off and feed them. We’ll need them soon. Someone will have to report to Treville.”

d’Artagnan throws his hands in the air, snow sliding off his cloaked shoulders. Clearly, he’s itching to be with their injured brother. They all are, and Aramis is both amazed and pleased how quickly the young Gascon has become part of the brotherhood - _the Inseparables_ , literally. But he also sees that d’Artagnan is not yet as schooled in keeping his emotions under control, particularly his fear for his mentor, and he can’t have him upset Athos any further than he already is.

“And of course I’m the one who’ll have to ride to Paris,” d’Artagnan grouses, dark eyes flashing.

“That still remains to be decided,” Aramis answers agreeably. “But this is still a mission, and each of us has to do their part. Yours, this very moment, is to see to the horses.”

Grudgingly, d’Artagnan complies and turns to take his grey and Aramis’ thoroughbred by the reins and lead them towards the stable, leaving the other two horses waiting with Porthos.

“What d’you need me to do’?” The big musketeer looks expectantly at Aramis. Officially, none of the two outranks the other, but whenever a medical emergency has to be orchestrated, it is unspoken procedure for Aramis to take command, and Porthos’ role to have his back. 

“Unload our supplies,” Aramis answers. “Find my kit and bring it to the infirmary. And see if you can find a dry and clean shirt for Athos.”

“Will do.” Porthos nods, already unstrapping the first bundle from the patiently waiting Frisian.

Taking a deep breath, Aramis hurries after the sisters.

 

####  xxx

The infirmary is spacious and, despite its high ceiling, surprisingly warm. A sister is busy stoking a fire in the hearth. Two other women are fussing around Athos, helping him onto one of the three beds, fresh linens neatly folded back to receive a new patient. Aramis is relieved to see two well-stocked shelves filled with vials, bottles and neat rolls of bandages, the scent of herbs and clean cotton filling the air. Books occupy a third shelve. A heavy table dominates the middle of the room, covered with a sheet, a bowl and a jug on a smaller table by its side, along with a small tray holding delicate knives, forceps and other instruments which Aramis can’t identify. He is impressed. This isn’t simply an infirmary - this is a surgery.

“What happened, Monsieur Aramis?” The Mother Superior has quietly appeared beside him, her wrinkled face a mixture of worry and angry resolve.

“An ambush. We were chasing a band of robbers, and they surprised us when we were making camp. Henri Caval was their leader. You may have heard of him?”

The Mother nods. “Stories have been travelling. We’ve kept the gates locked because of them.”

“And it was wise of you.” 

“What happened to Monsieur Athos?” 

“He was struck in the face with something heavy,” he sighs. “He has a head wound. A concussion and a cut that needs needlework. Much worse, his jaw is broken.”

The Mother’s face darkens. Aramis remembers her and Athos getting along seamlessly during the siege on the convent, her hands-on pragmatism and her resilience sitting well with the equally inclined musketeer lieutenant. She had most certainly hoped for a happier reunion.

“God almighty,” she says, and it sounds suspiciously like a curse. “We’ll help you do for him what we can. We have a very adept healer in our midst, Sister Marie. I’ve already sent someone to fetch her from the library.”

“I appreciate it.”

A muffled growl from the bed makes him turn back to Athos. Fiercely holding on to the lapels of his partially unclasped doublet, he is pushing a sister away from him. His bright green glare, enhanced by the darkened blood on his face, is making her take a few steps backward.

 _Leave me alone_ , that glare clearly communicates. _I can do this myself._

Aramis rushes to interfere.

“Athos,” he sighs. “She’s only trying to help you.”

The glare settles on him, and Aramis isn’t sure whether he should be glad that Athos has rallied enough to be his usual stubborn self or worried that the injured man, so compliant until now, is suddenly becoming belligerent. He squats in front of Athos who is now tearing at the clasps of his leathers with impatient, trembling hands.

“If you won’t let them help, perhaps you’ll allow me?”

Furtively ripping at a buckle, his fingers too cold and numb to operate it, Athos huffs furiously and then, suddenly, resigns. He lets his head hang, arms dropping between his knees. But when Aramis reaches out to touch him, he pushes his hand away.

“Athos, really. What’s going on with you? You know we have to get you out of these clothes. You know I-”

And then he sees what’s happening, and so does the Mother Superior.

“I think the lieutenant would appreciate a little privacy,” she addresses the three sisters milling around them. “Everyone out! Help Sister Hilda prepare supper. We’ll be needing broth for this young man here. And have Sister Marie wait outside when she arrives. Quickly now!”

The women, bobbing their heads obediently, hurry to comply. When the last one closes the heavy door behind her, Aramis hears a muffled sob wring itself from Athos’ throat. His shoulders quake as he silently, pitifully begins to cry.

“Athos…”

Aramis’ first instinct is to touch him, to offer physical comfort. It’s a natural reaction, albeit for a healer and cleric, and one that would be appreciated, even _expected_ if this were Porthos or d’Artagnan. But this is Athos. Athos, who prefers keeping everyone - including him - at an arm’s length. Athos who, when drunk and desperate, will swing at you if you touch him. Athos who smiles, but never laughs and who, most certainly, never lets anyone see him cry.

And so Aramis keeps his hands to himself and sits down. Not next to Athos, but on the opposite bed, several steps and a world away from Athos in his soundless misery. 

“I know this is all a bit too much,” he says quietly, gaze intently turned away from Athos as one would with a hurt, wild animal. “I know you’re in terrible pain. I know you hate this. I know that you’re overwhelmed.”

Athos doesn’t react. Quivers, withheld for too long, run through his hunched frame as bloodied tears drip from his beard onto the floorboards.

“But you’re not alone, my friend,” Aramis continues softly, the need to comfort Athos so overwhelming, it’s making his hands twitch. “We’ll get you through this. And right now, all you have to do is let me help you out of these dirty clothes. And then we’ll continue from there.”

It takes another minute or two. It takes for the silent quaking of Athos’ shoulders to subside and for Aramis to just sit there and let it happen. Then, slowly, Athos lifts his head. Clear tracks run over his dirty cheeks, disappearing into the sodden bandage. Exhaustion swims in his eyes, reddened and gleaming. He nods in defeat.

“Good.”

Swiftly and gently, Aramis sets to work. He peels Athos out of his heavy and sodden doublet, relinquishing it to the waiting hands of the Mother Superior who has unobtrusively appeared by the bed. To a suppressed noise of pain from Athos and to his own warning “Keep your mouth closed”, he unwraps the soiled bandage, revealing a near-black bruise along Athos’ jawline, the rest of his cheek a map of purple and red. Unfortunately, the snow tucked into the bandage has done little to reduce the swelling. At least the cut on his brow has stopped bleeding, and he is able to open his eye a bit. Carefully, Aramis pulls the bloodied shirt over the injured man’s head, spreading its neckline as wide as possible. With a warm, wet cloth, handed to him by the Mother Superior along with a bowl of heated water, he wipes and dabs at Athos’ face, beard and neck until most of the grime is gone. 

“I need a clean needle and thread and fresh bandages,” Aramis informs the Mother. “And may I assume that you have a potent pain draught in your impressive arsenal of medicines?”

“I have bandages, needle and thread prepared for you.” She points to a tray she must have placed on the nightstand by the bed while he was undressing Athos. “Concerning pain draughts and further care, I would like to introduce you and Monsieur Athos to Sister Marie. She is in charge of the infirmary and should be waiting right outside this door. May I let her in?”

Aramis looks at Athos for confirmation. One slow, tired blink. _Yes._

“We’ll be pleased to meet her.”

When the door opens again, a tall, slender woman with a freckled face and first creases around her hazel eyes enters. Under her white cap, a fiery red hairline is visible. She curtsies and hands Aramis a small bundle.

“At your service, Monsieur Aramis. Your companion asked me to give you these items.”

 _Pretty_ , Aramis can’t help but think, _even at her age. Even in a nun’s habit._

He calls himself to order and unwraps the bundle, containing a clean shirt and his small medical kit.

“Please drop the ‘monsieur’, Sister Marie,” he tells her. “Let’s not complicate things with formalities. Just Aramis. And Athos.” He gestures at his friend skeptically looking at the nun.

The woman nods. “He has a broken jaw?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“May I examine him?”

Aramis hesitates. “I was just going to sew his head wound. The Mother said you could help us with a pain draught.”

Her hazel eyes look at him openly, flashing an unusual self-confidence for a nun. “I would like to confirm you diagnosis first. I have quite a bit of experience with facial injuries.”

Aramis involuntarily raises his eyebrows. “How so?”

“It is a story I would rather not waste time on telling at the moment,” she replies, friendly but resolutely. “Your friend seems to be in dire straights, and I would like to offer him relief as swiftly as possible. But in order to pick the correct medicines, I need to be sure about the nature of his injuries. Will you allow me?”

The last sentence is directed at Athos himself and whether it’s Sister Marie’s competent air or her subtly commanding tone, he responds with a nod.

Mystified, Aramis watches her wash her hands in a basin, then crouch in front of Athos. 

“I will be careful, “ she announces, looking him straight in the eyes. “But it will hurt.”

Her examination is quick, thorough and leaves Athos leaning back on the bed, sweating and ashen-faced when she is done, but in a clean shirt, with a cold cloth on his forehead, a pillow stuffed behind his back and taking tiny sips of water from a spoon held to his lips.

“I’m afraid you were right,” she says, patiently waiting for Athos to swallow after each sip. “His jaw is indeed broken, and the bones are out of alignment. We need to set the break, and quickly, if he is to have a chance at full recovery.”

Aramis stares at her, incredulous. “Set the br- But how?! This isn’t a broken arm or leg. You can’t just give it a hard pull and slip it back. It’s unheard of!”

“And what would you do?” asks Sister Marie, sounding unduly provocative. She sets the cup and spoon aside. “Wait and see if it heals on its own, hoping for the best?”

Staggered, Aramis says nothing and runs his hands through his hair. He is out of his depth. This is not an injury he properly knows how to deal with. But as much as he appreciates the help - who is this woman? And why - or how - should she know better?

“Can I talk to you in private, Aramis?” she asks, apparently reading his thoughts and not wanting to continue this discussion in front of Athos who is looking at them with doubt in his eyes.

“Yes, of course.” 

“Then please let me administer a calming draught to your friend and then meet me outside.”

“What are you giving him?” Without meaning to, his question sounds spiteful.

“Nothing too strong yet.” She fetches a small bottle from one of the shelves and uncorks it, releasing a strong herbal scent into the room. “A mixture of valerian, melissa, hop and chamomile. It will help lessen the shock and hopefully give him some rest.”

Athos looks at Aramis when a spoonful of the medicine is lifted to his mouth. He raises his eyebrows.

Aramis nods. “Take it. It’s what I would give you if we were at the garrison.”

It is true. He has the exact same mixture, copied from Dr. Lemay’s recipe, in his own arsenal in the infirmary. The woman knows what she is doing. So far.

“Thank you for your trust.” The line is delivered by Sister Marie with a smile and - if Aramis isn’t completely mistaken - with a pinch of impertinence. Her attitude throws him a little, challenging and fascinating him at the same time.

Carefully and efficiently, Sister Marie administers the medicine. Whether it’s an immediate effect of the herbs or plain exhaustion, Athos sinks deeper into his pillow, eyes closed, face a little less drawn than before. 

“Can we talk now?” Sister Marie rises, gently tucking a blanket around the musketeer’s stilled form. 

“Yes, we can.”

With a final glance at Athos, resting for now, it seems, Aramis follows the nun out into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is always a bit risky to add an OC to the Musketeers. But I felt Aramis needed some help, and we know from canon that the Mother Superior - as badass as she is - is NOT a healer (she would've tried to save Isabel if she were, or for that matter, Mr. Irish whats-his-name instead of just sitting by him and pray until he was dead). And then Sister Marie wandered into my head and insisted she could help Athos. And who am I to deny a strong, skilled woman that privilege? Particularly if it means we get a flustered, impressed Aramis as a side-effect?
> 
> Also, I made Athos cry. Sorry. I was worried it would be too out of character at first, but, rewatching the show, I realized that we do see him tear up several times (even if that is a Tom thing and not necessarily an Athos thing), and I thought he could use the release after pulling himself together on that horse for hours.


	6. Dauntless decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of dialogue in this one, which is my kryptonite and tends to bring my non-native speaker status to the forefront. Bear with me.  
> Also, here's where medical research and fantasy meld into something that, hopefully, _seems_ to make sense for a procedure that, frankly, didn't exist in the 17th century.

When exiting the infirmary, Aramis almost collides with two dripping wet and very worried musketeers.

“How’s ‘e doin’?” Porthos, approaching Aramis so forcefully, the marksman automatically takes a step backwards.

“What’s going on in there?” d’Artagnan, hands on his hips, impatience transpiring off him in waves.

“An’ who is she?” Porthos again, looming almost menacingly over Sister Marie who, to Aramis’ surprise, remains unflinchingly in her spot beside him.

“He’s resting,” Aramis appeases them, palms raised. “And he _needs_ the rest, so, please, let him. And this,” he indicates the nun, “is Sister Marie. She’s the convent’s healer, and we were about to discuss how to proceed.”

Both Porthos and d’Artagnan take a taxing glance at the sister, then continue their barrage.

“What do you mean, how to proceed?”

“Did you fix ‘is jaw?”

“Will he be alright?”

“Can ‘e talk?”

More soothing hand gestures from Aramis. As much as he understands his friends’ need for information and would like to answer all of their questions, he is also anxious to dismiss them and talk to Sister Marie.

“I cannot tell you more at this point,” he tells them, forcing himself to sound calm and patient. “Athos has been given something to calm him down, and it seems to be working for now. We still need to treat the break in his jaw, and luck has it that Sister Marie has some experience in these matters and will advise me. I will keep you apprised of any further developments. Go find dry clothes, something to eat and stay close until I tell you otherwise.”

For a moment, the two musketeers remain rooted to their spots, motionless. They want to stay. Walking away from an injured brother, Aramis knows, is against the nature of these men. Even if there is nothing they can do for Athos, they want to be by his side, as if physical closeness could somehow lift his pain and transfer it to their strong shoulders. As if holding vigil could keep him from further harm. 

Aramis sees Porthos scowl and study him. It is both an assessment of Aramis’ words and of his emotional status. Porthos wants to make sure that Aramis can do what he’s saying - that he can help Athos and do it without Porthos’ strength supporting him.  
d’Artagnan, in turn, is flicking nervous eyes between Aramis and the nun, brows creased. Clearly he wonders what role Sister Marie is playing and whether Athos is in safe hands.

“Trust me,” Aramis tells the both of them, not feeling the assertiveness he is displaying. “There is nothing you can do for him now. We will take good care of him. Go. I’ll find you if I need you.”

Reluctantly, they finally depart, leaving puddles of melted snow behind, and Aramis fights a sudden, crestfallen feeling of being on his own.

 

####  xxx

Without further preamble, Aramis rounds on Sister Marie. “How exactly will you set Athos’ jaw, and where did you learn how to do it?”

Sister Marie folds her hands over her apron, her hazel eyes openly meeting his. 

“As far as I can tell, it is a simple break with the ends shifted slightly against each other. With enough manual pressure from the inside and the outside, I should be able to manipulate the bone back into alignment.”

She sounds composed and certain, but Aramis’ initial reaction is disbelief. Never in his life has he seen or heard of a physician attempting this procedure. The risk of causing further damage is too great. Normally, one would simply wait and hope that the bone heals on its own. 

“This is…” He shakes his head. “Have you even done this before?”

“Yes,” she answers. “Three times.”

“And how many of your patients survived?” He holds his breath.

Sister Marie does not avert her gaze. “Two. Both fully recovered.”

“And the third man?”

“The third _woman_ ,” she corrects him pointedly, “died from infection. Which, in my defence, had already set in by the time I set the break.”

 _Two out of three_ , Aramis thinks, torn between dread and hope. If they leave things as they are, Athos’ chances aren’t any better, presumably worse. Only few survive this kind of injury. Infection is very likely, starvation common, and survivors usually suffer from lifelong malnourishment, speech impairment and disfigurement. Even if they can nurse Athos through the initial difficult weeks, he will have to live with limitations, and it is highly unlikely that he will recover enough to serve as a musketeer.

“Dear God,” he gasps, the full weight of Athos’ injury finally hitting him. So far, in the frantic rush of caring for Athos, of getting him out of the snow and to the convent alive, any thoughts about the future have been of marginal importance. But now, reality slams into Aramis with full force.  
His knees suddenly threaten to buckle, and he has to lean against the stone wall, bent over, hands on his knees.

“Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?” Sister Marie doesn’t touch him, but she has closed any distance between them, hands unfolded, ready to intervene.

Aramis breathes and nods. “No. No, I’m fine. I’m just... You said the other two recovered fully? No impairments?”

She nods emphatically. “Yes. Talking and eating as if nothing had happened. It took a while, and it wasn’t an easy process, but the outcome was worth it.”

Aramis still isn’t convinced. “How do you even know if the bone is properly aligned? And how do you keep the patients still for the procedure?”

“I like to think God guides my hands,” she replies with a twinkle in her eyes. “I have to rely on my sense of touch, of course, but it rarely proves me wrong. A hefty dose of laudanum, the grip of strong assistants and the bravery of the patient himself provide the rest. Which, I assume, will not be a problem with Monsieur Athos.”

 _Laudanum_. Distilled from poppy seeds, it is a powerful opiate, and Aramis is as glad to hear that the convent has the drug at their disposal as he is wary of the consequences. But he pushes the thought aside. It is something they can deal with later. _If he survives_ , his brain provides, unbidden.

“Will you tell me who taught you?” Aramis repeats his question from earlier.

Sister Marie folds her arms in front of her chest. “Without going into too much detail,” she begins, “I used to work as a midwife and a healer, taught by my mother. Among my patients were the women working in the local brothel. Aside from birthing their babies and treating their, usual maladies, they frequently arrived on my doorstep with injuries inflicted to them by dissatisfied or overzealous clients.” An edge creeps into her voice. “Men like to hit women in the face. Split lips, blackened eyes, broken noses were common occurrences. And, sometimes, a broken jaw. These poor creatures. They would not have been able to work with their faces disfigured, so they rather risked letting me try my new approach. That is how I learned. That is how I know.”

A pang of shame for his own gender rushing through him, Aramis lets the information sink in, along with Sister Marie’s posture - shoulders erect, chin up, arms still crossed and a fierce glow on her freckled cheeks. He can see the memories in her eyes, in their haunted glint. Memories of pain and suffering, of lives saved and lost, of gratefulness and - too often - the quiet resignation of a final breath. The memories of a healer. He can relate so well. Perhaps it is that emotion of kinship that sways him.

“It has to be Athos’ decision, not mine,” he finally concedes, sighing deeply.

“Of course,” she says. “But I wanted to talk to you first. I would like to explain the procedure to you in detail. It is difficult, and there are risks involved, but I don’t think it is I he should be hearing them from. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t trust me. He trusts _you_.”

And so she explains. She explains how they will have to sedate Athos with as much laudanum as his body can handle without stopping his breathing. How a gag, forced between his teeth, will keep his mouth open while Aramis has to keep his head still. How Porthos and d’Artagnan will need to hold him down, because all the laudanum in the world cannot numb the sharp moments of pure hell when they set the bone. She explains the risk of causing more damage, of bleeding or splintering. The danger of the bone slipping out of alignment again if Athos only so much as grinds his teeth in the days after the procedure. She talks about the weight loss they will be fighting against in the weeks to come, when Athos won’t be able to eat anything that isn’t liquid or mashed and watered down.

Still leaning against the wall, Aramis takes it all in, his fingers subconsciously finding and clenching around the cross he wears around his neck. What Sister Marie is suggesting sounds dangerous and daunting, the odds stacked against them insurmountable. And yet. And yet. Her calm demeanour, her honesty, her conviction stir something in him - faith.

 _God helps those who help themselves_ , he thinks. It is a line that has worked for him many times in the past. It may help work a miracle now. 

“You really think you can do this?” 

“I know I can,” she says, fire kindling in her eyes. “The rest is up to your friend and to the grace of our Lord.”

Aramis pushes away from the wall, legs steady once more. “Then let us go and talk to him.”

 

####  xxx

 

It is daybreak when Athos finds himself lying on his side on the sheet-covered table in the middle of the infirmary with Porthos pinning his arms down and d’Artagnan doing the same with his legs. Aramis’ hands flutter in and out of his laudanum-blurred field of vision, angling his head in a different position, ghosting over his cheek, dabbing something wet onto the cut above his eye. A female voice is issuing instructions behind his back. He thinks he hears the words of a prayer and the wrinkled face of the Mother Superior briefly hovers before him, but everything is slipping, tumbling, receding. Even the pain.

Last night, when Aramis had explained his options to him, candlelight flickering across his solemn and tired face, it hadn’t taken Athos long to decide. He was rather going to die than live his life as a thin wraith with garbled speech, no longer a musketeer. While having no illusions about the long and hard road ahead of him, it is his only chance at maintaining the life he knows.

He’d wanted to tell Aramis that he trusts him and that, if things go wrong, if he doesn’t survive, Aramis isn’t to blame. Knowing about his friend’s tendency to shoulder guilt for losses beyond his control, Athos would’ve preferred to give him preemptive absolution, say a few simple, poignant words to lift the weight off Aramis’ shoulders and lighten the shadows in his luminous brown eyes. Instead, condemned to muteness, he had taken Aramis’ hand and squeezed it, lingering, letting the touch transmit what he couldn’t say.

And now here he is, in Porthos’ gentle but iron grip, d’Artagnan’s warm hands encircling his bootless ankles, and, thankfully, the laudanum Sister Marie has dribbled into his mouth is detaching him from the blend of fear and gratefulness swelling in his chest. He feels his eyes falling shut on their own accord. Darkness encroaches. 

“Hold still,” Aramis whispers into his ear, his hands holding his head. “Whatever we do, however painful this is, please hold still.”

“Gotta be strong now.” Porthos’ deep rumble, his grip on him intensifying. 

And then they begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be taking a bit longer from here on out due to ongoing renovations at home and more hours at work, but I WILL keep going. Goddammit, I will. I am a musketeer. I can do this.


	7. Painful Procedures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Finally, Athos is getting his jaw set. Never thought I'd be building up to this for weeks. Read between your fingers if you're squeamish, but I don't think it's too gruesome. And, as mentioned before, this procedure is a complete invention on my part, padded by research and figuring something out that _might_ have been possible if someone had had the guts to attempt it.

The laudanum, to Aramis’ utter relief, is doing its work. Feeding Athos a sufficient amount has been difficult, but now he is lying limp on the table, breaths slow and deep, completely oblivious to Aramis finally sewing the cut above his eye. There is no reaction whatsoever as the needle penetrates his flesh, and Aramis can focus on using small, neat stitches that will barely leave a scar. Sister Marie has offered to close the cut before moving on to setting Athos’ jaw, but it is important to Aramis that he does it himself. In a minute or two, he will have to step aside, reduced to the role of an assistant, holding Athos’ head still while Sister Marie takes the fate of his musketeer brother into her hands, and hers alone. Which is why he wants to do this at least - close Athos’ head-wound with the utmost care and to the best of his abilities - before becoming a helpless spectator in the battle for Athos’ life.

“Done.” He cuts the final thread, brushing a stray curl out of Athos’ forehead as he withdraws his hand. The sleeping musketeer looks peaceful even if a little odd. Although Athos balked at the idea, they’ve shaved the left side of his face and neck, revealing the full extent of bruising along his jaw. Fresh stubble is already shadowing his spectacularly colourful cheek. Looking up, Aramis searches for the faces of his brothers, who, in spite of Athos’ motionless tranquility, are still maintaining their posts at his arms and legs. Three brown pairs of eyes connect in silent reassurance. Then Aramis turns to Sister Marie waiting behind him. “It is up to you now.”

She nods and exchanges places with Aramis. “Do you want to say a prayer before we proceed? The Mother has told me you are a man of God.”

Automatically, his hand moves to his chest where the pendant is tucked into his shirt. 

“No, thank you,” he says. “I’ve already said my prayers. I am certain the Lord is with us in this room and will give us guidance and strength.” 

He truly _is_ certain. On his knees, in the convent’s chapel, he has conversed with God, has - once more - told him that Athos is worth saving, even if Athos does not necessarily believe so himself. Although the former Comte de la Fère no longer carries the burden of having condemned his wife to death, knowing that Milady is, indeed, very much alive, Aramis surmises that Athos still deems himself a murderer, at least by accessory. They’ve all heard him say that he’s created her, created a monster, and for that Athos thinks he cannot be forgiven, will never forgive himself. But Aramis does, and God, he is convinced, forgives him as well. So, even if Athos no longer prays to a God he believes has averted his gaze from him, Aramis prays, for the both of them, and his faith tells him that God is listening. 

“Very well then. Let us proceed.” Sleeves rolled up, her expression serious, Sister Marie takes charge.“Porthos, d’Artagnan, hold him steady now! Aramis, prepare to place the gag. Ready yourselves. This isn’t going to be pretty.”  
Bending over Athos, she reaches for his forehead and chin and, moving in unison with Aramis who is cradling the sides of his head, she slowly pulls Athos’ mouth open. 

Beneath their hands, Athos comes to life. Not sudden and not altogether, the drug having a strong hold on him, but they feel him move, fidgeting as if caught in an unpleasant dream. He whimpers, face creasing in distress. Aramis sees Porthos and d’Artagnan tighten their grip, brows curled into worried frowns.

“The gag, Aramis.”

As he pushes the thickly stuffed leather pouch between Athos’ molars on his uninjured side, he has to apply more force than he’s comfortable with, and their patient’s movement intensifies. Eyes still closed, he tries to roll his head, and Aramis clamps one hand around his forehead to keep him still while securing the gag with the other. 

“Gentlemen,” Sister Marie says firmly, “this is the moment I warned you about. Persist.”

Gently at first, she slides the fingers of her left hand into Athos’ mouth, her right hand palpating the swelling on the outside of his freshly shaven cheek, searching for the right spot. Athos squirms, his neck muscles straining against Aramis’ grip, his tongue sluggishly trying to expel the gag. Suddenly, Sister Marie, fingers clenched around the break from both sides, pulls hard at his lower jaw. 

Athos _bucks_. His eyes open, wild and unseeing, lids fluttering. 

“Hold him!”

“Wha-?!”

“Watch it, d’Artagnan!”

Their full weight on his arms and legs barely seems enough, and Aramis is struggling at Athos’ head. They hear a sickening, crunching sound when, with a wrench and an inverse push, Sister Marie forces the broken bone back into place. A deep, mournful groan rumbles through Athos’ chest as, semi-conscious, he tries to shift and roll. It breaks Aramis’ heart and he thinks he hears a sob coming from d’Artagnan. More grating sounds of bone against bone as Sister Marie stoically continues to manipulate Athos’ jaw, unperturbed by her patient’s resistance, while the musketeers pin his thrashing body to the table with brute force. Mystified, Aramis wonders how the nun can even feel or see what she is doing. 

“Good. It is done.” Fingers slick with blood and saliva, she withdraws them from Athos’ mouth. “Take out the gag, Aramis. Carefully now. Keep him on his side. He’s bleeding a little, and we don’t want him to choke. ”

Exhaling with relief, Aramis extracts the leather pouch and watches Sister Marie gently close Athos’ mouth, angling his head so the blood can seep out. With his mouth shut again, Athos’ straining has quieted down. He is still moving, instinctively trying to get away from their touch, but less acutely so, eyes reduced to slits, limbs twitching. 

“Hold his chin,” the nun instructs Aramis. “He mustn’t move his jaw now, or it will all have been for nothing. I’ll fasten the bandage as soon as the bleeding stops.”

“Ssshhhh….” Porthos soothes his restless brother, the dark skin of his knuckles white from pinning Athos’ wrists down. “S’alright, brother. ‘S over. You be still now.”

Bracing Athos’ jaw, Aramis becomes aware of his own heart thundering in his chest. 

“Did it work?” he asks nervously. “Is the bone realigned?”

Delicately, Sister Marie sweeps her fingertips over Athos’ jawline. The swelling is still there, but Aramis thinks there is less of a lump, less asymmetry.

“Yes,” she answers, nodding to herself. “Yes, it worked. Now all we have to do is keep it that way.”

“Thank Christ!” At the foot of the table, d’Artagnan gasps, shakes his head, and then his face breaks into the wide, luminous smile so typical for the young musketeer. 

“Yes, thank Christ.” Now that Athos has stilled under his touch, the laudanum apparently reclaiming him, Aramis lets his own head sink, his forehead gently connecting with Athos’. Heedless of the sweaty strands of curls plastered to both their faces, not caring about the rank, iron smell from Athos’ injured mouth, he soaks in the closeness of his brother, feels his breath, still a little too fast, ghosting over his cheek. 

A hand settles on Aramis’ shoulder, squeezing it, and by its familiar weight and size he can tell that it belongs to Porthos.

“You did good, Aramis.” 

The kindness in the big musketeer’s voice is almost too much for Aramis. He feels raw, thin-skinned, now that the immediate danger is over. Porthos always tells him that he gets too invested, that he opens himself up too much to the suffering of his patients, and he has indeed become a little better at shielding his heart from other people’s pain. But whenever it’s one of them, one of his _brothers_ , there are no walls, no defences.

“I didn’t do anything,” he mumbles into Athos’ messy fringe, reluctant to break the connection. Pressing a gentle kiss - a blessing - to his forehead (Athos would break _his_ jaw for this, were he awake), he eventually sits up and looks at the others. “It is Sister Marie we have to thank.”

The nun is washing her hands, looking composed and content. She smiles at the musketeers.

“I am quite pleased with the outcome of the procedure,” she states. “But you should delay any gratefulness until your friend is completely restored. This was only the first step. He’s got a long road ahead of him. You can let him go now, d’Artagnan,” she adds. “He’s settled down, and I assume he will be asleep for a while. It’ll do him good.”

D’Artagnan, who’s loosely kept his hands on Athos’ legs, steps away from the table, the smile on his face merging into a look of astonishment.

“I can’t believe we did it,” he says, grabbing his forehead with both hands. He walks a few steps, returns, swivels to repeat the cycle, shedding the tension he’s had to contain during the procedure. “I can’t believe it worked. I thought there was nothing we could do. I thought we’d have to sit here and…” He breaks off, shaking his head. They can’t see his face, only his back, but Aramis is almost certain the lad is fighting tears. Porthos releases Aramis’ shoulder and crosses over to the young musketeer, stepping in front of him and enveloping him in one of his trademark hugs.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly. “Hey. We’re musketeers. _He’s_ a musketeer. We don’t jus’ give up. We never do.”

“What happens now?” Aramis has accepted a cloth from Sister Marie and is carefully wiping the blood from the corner of Athos’ mouth. “The bleeding appears to have stopped. How exactly do we proceed?” 

The Sister reaches for a roll of bandage. “Now we’ll splint his jaw - it has to be tight - and transfer him to his bed. It is crucial that he doesn’t move his jaw at all in the next few days until the bone has begun to heal. Which is why we will keep him sedated. However, we will have to wake him up every few hours, at least enough to get some honeyed water and broth into him and to make sure that he’s responsive. Let’s not forget that he has a head wound. His concussion may trigger vomiting. Someone needs to remain with him at all times to make sure he doesn’t roll onto his injured side, to watch his breathing and check for a fever. Infection is a great risk at this point. We’ll try to rinse his mouth with a cleansing tonic, but, needless to say, that will be difficult to achieve.”

Aramis nods, feeling both incredibly tired after what they’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours and buoyed by the Sister’s clear and conclusive instructions. He watches her attentively as she first applies a thick poultice to Athos’ cheek and then firmly wraps the bandage around his head several times. 

“What poultice is that?” he asks, curious.

“Comfrey,” she replies, tying the bandage on the side of Athos’ head and tucking the ends in. “It promotes healing and dries into a hard and stiff layer, thus restricting movement and helping to splint the break. The English call it ‘plaister’.”

Aramis notices that his brain, while still humming alertly in his head, is struggling to catalogue everything the Sister says. Usually, he has a quick memory, and medical facts stick easily, particularly when they add to his healer’s knowledge. But his concentration is becoming sketchy, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his very limbs. _When was the last time he slept_ , he wonders?

“And you should get some rest,” Sister Marie picks up on his lack of further inquiry. “And some food into you. Monsieur Athos will need you when he wakes, and you will have to keep your strength up.”

“I’ll take first watch,” d’Artagnan offers. He has disentangled himself from Porthos and seems eager to help. All of them, Aramis thinks, are terrible at simply waiting around, but d’Artagnan, vigorous, young and full of nervous energy, is the worst at sitting still. He will drive them all mad.

“No, you won’t,” Aramis objects. “You are going to get your horse ready, pack supplies and ride to Paris to report to Tréville that we’ve eliminated the threat from Caval’s men.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widen. “But-”

“No _but_ ,” Aramis interrupts him. “You are a musketeer. A soldier. It is your duty to report to your Captain who, I am sure, is anxiously waiting to hear from us.”

“But why can’t Porthos-”

“You are the fittest rider among us,” Aramis continues, undeterred. “You can make it to Paris and back within a single day. Athos will be asleep most of the time. There is nothing you’re missing.”

With a huff, d’Artagnan hangs his head.

“You really are the best rider of us all,” Porthos chimes in. “An’ that stupid ‘orse loves you. I swear, she understands ev’ry damn word you’re sayin’. Farm boy.” 

The remark elicits a smirk from d’Artagnan. He thinks, then nods, hands raised in a gesture of acquiescent resignation. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Good lad.” Porthos ruffles through his hair, and d’Artagnan swats at his arm. “But first you’ll help us get your lieutenant to bed. ‘E’s heavier than ‘e looks.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter I’m passing the 10k words mark - the longest fanfic I’ve ever written. Please leave biscuits with your comments. I will need them to keep going.


	8. Unexpected Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments, discussions - and for the biscuits, chocolate bars and truffels accompanying them.! ;) With a long WIP, it's easy to lose steam, and your wonderful feedback (and your biscuits) really keep me going.

Two hours later, Athos is peacefully asleep, safely propped on his side, Porthos planted next to him, still, dark and watchful like a gigantic gargoyle. In the next bed over, Aramis’ messy head is peeking out from under a blanket, his soft snores betraying deep slumber in spite of the sunlight drifting into the infirmary through the lead glass windows. Sister Marie had insisted that the exhausted and overwrought musketeer medic take a calming draught which had let him fall asleep astoundingly swiftly. Outside, it has stopped snowing; Porthos sees a distorted patch of bright blue sky through the glass. The wind has died down. If the weather holds, d’Artagnan will be back soon.

It is not an unpleasant feeling to be sitting here, watching over his two brothers looking at ease for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. Porthos knows the moment is fleeting. He’s been given instructions how to handle a whole assortment of emergencies that could arise any second with Athos - what to do should he throw up or choke, bleed, wake up in pain or - the worst scenario of them all - stop breathing. Aramis, he knows, will start at any sound of distress from his patient, calming draught or not, ready to intervene. But for now, both of them are curled up comfortably, their equally tousled mobs of hair and relaxed expressions making them look younger, even Athos with the bandage covering up most of the damage to his face. 

Warmth spreads through Porthos’ chest. He almost revels in the thought of protecting these two, right here, right now, from any harm coming at them. It is his calling, his reason for being a soldier - fighting for and protecting what and who he holds dear. Not one to be easily shaken, the last two days have carved at even his steadfast belief that, in the end, as long as they stick together, everything will turn out well. Used to Athos’ customary stoicism when injured, his brother’s brokenness and obvious agony have thrown him more than he cares to admit. He’s never seen Athos this helpless, and it makes his heart hurt that he wasn’t able to prevent it. Back in the forest, engaged with his own opponent, he had seen the man approaching Athos from behind, swinging his musket like a club. But he had been too late to thwart the blow, only managing to bury his sword in the man’s side after Athos had crumpled to the ground. 

_At least you saved his life_ , his conscience whispers at him.

 _For now_ , Porthos whispers back. _For now_.

A commotion in the hall has him sit up. Footsteps, female voices talking over each other, not in the nuns’ usual hushed tone but loud and excited. Several of them must be approaching the infirmary and that they don’t seem to care about waking Aramis or - God forbid - Athos tells him that something is very wrong.

The door opens, and a man is brought in, carried in a blanket by Sister Marie and three other nuns straining under his weight. The Mother Superior hurries past them and spreads a fresh sheet over the large table.

“Put him here!”

“What’s going on?” Aramis is already on his feet, pulling his suspenders back over his shoulders and slipping into his boots, his confused gaze flitting between Athos, still oblivious to the commotion, and the newly arrived party.

“Who is that?” Porthos asks.

“We found him in front of the gate,” one of the nuns says hastily. “We don’t know who he is or how he got there.”

They heave the man onto the table before Porthos can assist. He is reluctant to leave his post by Athos’ bed, expecting him to wake any second now, but the laudanum still has him in its grip. He doesn’t even stir.

The man on the table is bleeding. His breeches are soaked rusty red down his right side, his injury hidden underneath a heavy leather cloak and a makeshift bandage around his waist. He’s clad in shaggy clothes, a fur hat and mittens, his face reddened from the cold, and it takes a moment for Porthos to recognize him.

“That’s one of Caval’s men,” he gasps, seeing the realization dawn on Aramis’ face as well. It is not just any man. “E’s the one who injured Athos!”

“I thought you’d killed him!” Aramis is staring at Porthos.

“Thought so too,” Porthos replies, in shock. “Put me sword through ‘im, and ‘e fell. I dunno how… I can’t believe ‘e’s survived.”

“Whoever he is,” the Mother Superior weighs in, wrestling her way past Porthos to help undress the new arrival. “He’s wounded and needs our help. You can assist or step away and let us work. We will ascertain the details later.”

“And you,” Sister Marie glowers at Porthos, “have strict orders to watch Monsieur Athos. Please return to your post. If he wakes he will need immediate attention. Please, do as you’re told.”

Outrage surges through Porthos, sudden and hot.

“Didn’t you ‘ear what I said?! ‘E almos’ killed Athos! You can’t… Why are you helpin’ ‘im?!”

“...because they can’t simply let him bleed to death,” Aramis fills in and, shaking himself out of his stupor, hurries to aid the women. They’ve peeled the man out of his coat and shirt and unwrapped the bandage, revealing a deep, sluggishly bleeding stab wound above his hip.

“What?!” Porthos roars. “You’re helpin’ ‘im too?!”

Bent over the new patient, stuffing the deep gouge with pieces of cloth that Sister Marie pushes into his hands, Aramis flashes dark eyes at Porthos.

“Porthos! Take care of Athos, NOW!”

Growling, Porthos returns to Athos’ bedside. The injured musketeer isn’t awake, but he has moved, askew on the bed now, halfway on his back. Judging by his quickened breathing, the din is penetrating his drug-spun cocoon, but his eyes are still firmly closed and he doesn’t resist when Porthos maneuvers him back onto his side.

“S’ alright,” Porthos automatically soothes, forcing his voice to sound calm in spite of his anger. “Ignore ’em. Nothin’ worth wakin’ up for. Sleep.”

One eye on Athos, the other on the hustle and bustle going on, he sees Sister Marie, hands busy and bloodied, cast a glance in his direction.

“Everyone out who isn’t strictly required to be here,” she addresses her helpers. “Sister Julie, Sister Margot, Sister Simone - you can leave now. I only need Aramis and the Mother. Quietly, please. We don’t want to disturb Monsieur Athos any further.”

Three heads nod, three brown-clad figures scurry out of the infirmary. Except for the occasional exchange between Aramis and Sister Marie and the clinking of glass as the Mother Superior fetches supplies from the shelves, the infirmary grows quiet again.

Porthos, suspended in disbelief, watches as Aramis and the two nuns take care of Caval’s henchman, competently and efficiently, as if he were simply another patient in need of aid and not the man responsible for Athos’ terrible state. They clean his wound on both sides ( _so he did shove his sword all the way through, serves him right_ ), sew it shut and bandage it tightly. They bathe his hands and feet in warm water, several fingers and toes blackened from the cold, and Porthos feels not a trace of sympathy. Silently, he wills the unconscious man to wake up and feel the pain of his wound and their ministrations, to be at least in a fraction of the agony Athos has to go through because of him. 

When they are done and the Mother Superior moves to the bed across from Athos to fold back the sheets, Porthos grabs her arm and has to remind himself of her age and her brittle bones. 

“No,” he says, menace thick in his voice. “Not here.”

The Mother looks at him, a disarming expression of gentleness on her face. “Of course not,” she replies, blue eyes surprisingly sharp. “I need the bedding. There is a vacant chamber across the hall where we will put him.”

“Can it be locked?” He releases her arm.

“Yes. He will not be in any shape to escape. But yes, it can and will be locked.”

In the end, while the Mother Superior and Sister Marie stay with Athos, Porthos helps Aramis carry the robber into his cell, revolted, but wanting to put space between Caval’s man and Athos. Sparse and small, with only a bed and a stool in it, little light coming in from a small window high up in the ceiling, at least it looks like a cell, and Porthos is glad for it. After the heavy door is shut and locked, Porthos grabs Aramis by the front of his shirt and pushes him into the wall. He hears his own teeth grind.

“What d’you think you’re doin’?!”

Aramis doesn’t fight him. When their eyes connect, Porthos sees turmoil in his friend’s umber gaze. 

“I don’t know,” the marksman says, at a loss. “What I am supposed to do? What any decent human being is supposed to do, even if it feels _wrong_? Even if I’d rather put a musket ball into that _scum’s_ head than sew up his wound?”

That is not quite the answer Porthos had expected. Not for the first time, Aramis is saving the life of someone who’s pointed a gun at him or tried to kill a musketeer. It’s simply not in him to let anyone die if he can prevent it, friend or foe, and typically he would lecture Porthos on how every life is worth saving, acting like a bloody saint.

“‘E nearly killed Athos,” Porthos says, not as vehemently as he’d meant to, more in confirmation of what they both seem to be thinking. “And who knows ‘ow many others.”

“I know.” Aramis closes his hand around Porthos’ fist still clutching his shirt front. “I feel the same outrage you feel. The same need for revenge. But we are better than him.” He gives Porthos’ hand a squeeze, the anger in his deep eyes merging into something more tortured, more sacrificial. “We aren’t murderers.”

Porthos releases him with a frustrated shove. “We don’ ‘ave to kill ‘im, Aramis,” he says darkly, thinking that, yes, he would love to kill that man, squeeze the life out of him and see his eyes bulge as he goes in fear. “It’s enough if we don’ help ‘im.”

“It is the same thing,” Aramis objects. “And I will not put that on my conscience.”

“What if I take it on mine?” 

It is not an empty offer. Although he may regret it later, right now, this very moment, Porthos thinks he could live with a murder on his head. Rage still fuels him, hasn’t burnt itself out yet. He’s not thinking clearly, he knows that, but he doesn’t care. 

“Eye for an eye,” he adds viciously.

“Athos isn’t dead,” Aramis counters. “If you want to quote the bible to manipulate me, pick a better line. One that convinces me.” There is no irony in his words, only seriousness.

With a grunt, Porthos turns away and starts pacing up and down the cold passage, dim even at midday. Athos’ mangled face flashes in front of him. His memory replays the ungodly noise his brother made when Sister Marie set his jaw. 

“I understand what you’re feeling,” Aramis says quietly. “I want to make him pay as well. But revenge is not the right way. Committing a deadly sin isn’t. It’s against God’s will.”

_Ah. There he is at last. Saint Aramis._

“God ‘as nothin’ to do with this!” Porthos yells at him, his anger rekindled. 

The marksman raises his hands, palms outward. “Alright. Then what about Athos?”

“What about ‘im?” Porthos sounds rude, and he finds it completely appropriate. 

“Would Athos want this? That we let the man die?”

Porthos huffs darkly. “S’ not like we can ask ‘im. Not like ‘e can answer.”

“No,” Aramis agrees. “But you know him. You know that Athos holds the Musketeers’ code of honour above everything. Even above his own life. What would he do?”

It’s a good question. Athos clings to the Musketeer code the way Aramis does to the bible. Porthos has seen Athos kill many times, ruthlessly, without hesitation. But he has never seen him kill a defenseless man. Even when Milady was kneeling in front of him, a convicted criminal, multiple murders on her head and Athos’ own heart one of her victims, the musketeer lieutenant had put away his sword and spared her life. 

“I have to think on it,” Porthos says to Aramis.

The marksman nods, looking exhausted. “You do that. Take a walk. Go to the chapel and have a conversation with God. But stay away from that chamber and be back in the infirmary by dusk! You’ll have to help me wake Athos and get something to drink into him. Caring for him is our priority. Don’t you forget that!”

Still angered, but somewhat in control of himself, Porthos nods and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may have come a bit unexpected. I know you're all waiting for Athos to wake up, but I wanted to explore another musketeer's inner workings, and it was Porthos' turn. Also, I didn't want this story to swim in gratuitous h/c with nothing else happening than sponge baths (@hobbeshalftail3469 has started a queue, btw) and descriptions of Athos' pain. So I went and added a bit of plot. I hope it doesn't come as a nuisance.


	9. Into Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After last chapter's little excursion, we now return to our regularly scheduled Athos whump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't as polished as it should be, but I'm away for the weekend, sans computer, and I wanted this to go up before I leave.
> 
> Any mistakes I’ve made (particularly the tenses which are probably all over the place in the flashbacks) I blame on the sugar rush from all the biscuits you crazy people sent me. ;)

Athos floats in a dreamscape of black trees, pistol shots and the bite of snow against skin. Memories waver over a battlefield, warping it into alternating scenes. Faces fade in and out of a backdrop of pain. His father’s, stern and aristocratic, studying his broken arm _(arm?)_ in disapproval and lecturing him on the humbug of climbing trees; Tréville’s, light blue eyes boring into him as he orders him to the infirmary, furious that his lieutenant has led a mission carrying an untreated wound; the beautiful, seductive face of his wife, Anne, her lips reverently kissing a recently acquired scar.

Voices invade his dreams, one deep and gruff, the other kind and coaxing, accompanied by the touch of hands, and he floats closer to the surface. A third, female voice rings in the background. They want him to do something. 

_…’thos… wake up…_

He tries. He _really_ tries, but everything is heavy - limbs, head, eyelids - and all he can do is let them maneuver him in a different position and stay there. There is something he needs to ask, something concerning the rhythmic thrum of pain in his jaw, but when he attempts to open his mouth, the voices become urgent and he feels hands under his chin and on his head, blocking his movement. Panic flares at the back of his mind.

_...don’t… still… closed…_

Athos pries his eyelids open, ordering his arms to lift, dead weight or not, and swat at whoever is holding his head in a vice, but his wrists are caught in a firm grip. In front of him, Porthos flickers in and out of focus, cinching his arms. Beside him, Aramis, strangely distorted and talking, his hands cupping Athos’ face. Athos doesn’t quite catch what he says, but they are his _brothers_ , he’s certain they mean him no harm, so he lets himself drift back into the haze that is tugging at him. 

_...drink…_

But the voices keep nagging. He is aware of fingertips against his lips, parting them. Something cool and sweet trickles into his mouth, past his teeth and is absorbed by his parched tongue before he can even remember how to swallow. 

_...drink…_

He does. More liquid is gently being forced past his lips. Swallowing sends a muted, fiery spike through his face and neck, but his thirst trumps the pain. Through heavy eyelids, he thinks he sees a woman _(Anne? Sister Marie? Who is Sister Marie?)_ smile at him, and he is content in the feeling of doing something right. The sweet coolness on his tongue yields to tepid bitterness and a sharp herbal scent. Whatever they’re dripping into his mouth stings and pools in his split gums where his teeth are missing. _He’s missing teeth?_

Athos hears a low moan and realises belatedly that it’s come from his own throat. The voices comfort him now. A different herbal taste appears in his mouth, thick and painless. Then his eyes drift completely closed.

The dreamscape awaits. 

XXX

 

Rousing Athos enough while keeping him under the numbing spell of the laudanum is not an easy feat to achieve. Their first attempt nearly ends in a catastrophe when Athos, unaware of his surroundings or their instructions, attempts to speak and Aramis has to clamp his hands around his jaw, fearing the broken bone will shift again. Athos begins to fight him, but thank God Porthos is there to grab his confused brother’s hands and calm him down. 

Whatever the big musketeer has done in the last few hours, it has brought him to his senses, and Aramis is relieved. Caring for Athos has been draining, and the sudden appearance of Caval’s man has brought on a moral dilemma he doesn’t want to shoulder on his own. He most certainly doesn’t want to fight Porthos over what’s right or wrong - a question, which, in his experience, rarely has a simple answer. Unlike Porthos, he is capable of quickly overruling his instincts by adhering to a higher law - that of Christ and the Bible. Compassion is one of the New Testament’s cardinal demands, and Aramis has been living it as a healer, even if he is in permanent conflict with it as a soldier. Although his first impulse was to drive his main gauche through the henchman’s heart, he knows it is not his decision to make. The man is a criminal. If he survives, he will be sentenced and hanged. He will pay for his crimes, including the terrible injuries he’s inflicted upon Athos. God will judge him. God. Not Aramis.

Reappeared from his hiatus, still looking grim but steady, Porthos had come up to him and spat out a proclamation. “Alrigh’. We’ll do it your way. We’ll keep ‘im alive an’ hand ‘im over to the proper authorities. But I’m not touchin’ him again, an’ you will leave the nursin’ to Sister Marie an’ the other nuns. We take care of Athos. Not of ‘im.” 

They’d sealed the deal with a handshake.

And now Aramis is infinitely glad to have his brother by his side as they perform the Sisyphos task of spoon-feeding a semi-conscious Athos honeyed water and medicine. Thankfully, their injured brother is no longer fighting them, and after a few futile attempts and water everywhere, but not in Athos’ mouth, they have devised a working method that hinges on propping him up at the right angle and smuggling spoonfuls of water past his lips. It’s slow going, and Aramis doubts they’re getting enough into him to quench his thirst, but it’s a start. 

Experimenting with the dosage, Sister Marie has found the correct amount of laudanum to keep Athos in a sedated state without compromising his ability to swallow. They have even been able to administer some of the cleansing mixture that will hopefully avert infection. The infusion of salvia, yarrow, garlic leaves and St. John’s wort is bitter, but in spite of pulling a grimace, Athos has made no attempt at spitting it out. 

Curious, Aramis has caught Sister Marie lifting Athos’ eyelids and shining a candle into his eyes. When he asks, she explains to him that, for whatever reason, patients with head wounds sometimes develop unequally large pupils, signifying deterioration or lasting damage. As long as Athos’ stay the same size, contracting in the same measure when the light hits them, they shouldn’t have to worry about his concussion. 

Aramis, Porthos, Sister Marie and the Mother Superior have taken turns at watching over him, and another full night has passed, the sun risen again, with all of them falling into a routine and cautious optimism beginning to replace the fear curling in Aramis’ stomach ever since Athos was injured. This morning, Sister Marie successfully added broth to Athos’ diet, and there is no trace of a fever when Aramis checks his brow. 

There had been a period of worry during the night when Athos had become increasingly restless, fidgeting in his bed, a deepening frown on his forehead. When he’d suddenly stilled and Aramis had looked him over to find the sheet under him wet, they’d realised that, too drugged to control or communicate his body’s basic needs, he’d lost his bladder, and they’d swiftly cleaned him up, hoping the proud musketeer would not remember the embarrassing instance. On the bright side, it meant that Athos was processing sufficient amounts of fluids.  
After that, Aramis, with the regular aid of a wide-necked bottle and a gentle massage of Athos’ lower belly, had spared him from further accidents - a trick he should’ve thought off much earlier, taught to him by an experienced military nurse. 

Although he doesn’t let it on to Porthos, Aramis is keeping a wary eye on what’s happening in the small chamber across the hall. The nuns have established a roster, one of them staying with the still-alive, still unconscious henchman at all times. Sister Marie checks on him at regular intervals. As per Porthos’ instructions, they’ve secured his wrists to the bed frame, and the nuns stay well out of his reach. When he’s not with Athos or catching an eyeful of sleep, Porthos stands guard in front of the infirmary, his scowl fixed on the robber’s cell door, as if the severely injured man could suddenly escape his bed, break through the locked door and make another attempt at killing Athos. Inwardly, Aramis smiles at Porthos’ exaggerated protectiveness. He knows his big brother feels partially responsible for Athos’ injury, and he suspects this is his way of making up for it.

Late in the afternoon, Aramis is finishing a bowl of stew in the convent’s warm, tidy and comfortable kitchen when the Mother Superior appears, looking upset. She has been on watch with Athos, and her allotted time has not yet passed. Aramis drops his spoon, instantly alarmed.

“What is it? Athos?”

She nods, wringing her gnarly hands. “He’s shivering. Would you please come? I’m afraid he’s developing a fever. I’ve already sent for Sister Marie.”

_Oh no._

To Aramis’ despair, her assumption is correct. When he arrives at the infirmary, Athos is restless and shuddering, his skin covered in goose flesh, an unnatural blush blooming on his cheeks. Sister Marie is already at his side, her fingers on Athos’ wrist, feeling his pulse. 

“Elevated,” she states before Aramis can even ask. “He’s growing warmer by the minute.”

Instinctively, Aramis places one hand on Athos’ forehead, the other on his good cheek. His skin is dry and hot. 

“Infection?” he asks, unable to conceal a slight tremble in his voice.

Sister Marie frowns. “Possibly. I can’t be sure. We can’t look into his mouth, and the swelling I can feel doesn’t seem much worse than earlier. It could be infection, of course. It could also be an ague that he caught out in the cold. Although he’s not coughing, and there’s no sign of a running nose.”

Aramis’ mind is racing, running through the various possibilities, all of them equally frightful. “Could it be his teeth? He lost two of them from the blow, and there could be remnants festering in his gums.”

“It’s a possibility, but I don’t think so,” the nun answers. “When I first examined him and when we had him on the table I didn’t feel or see any remnants, and I was thorough. I’m fairly certain they were knocked out completely, including the roots. But, of course, I could have overlooked something.” In spite of the arising crisis, she sounds pensive, not nervous. 

“What do we do?” Aramis still has his hands on Athos, shivering and shifting under his touch. 

“Everything we _can_ do,” the Sister replies resolutely. She reaches for a glass bottle on the nightstand. “Cool him down. Keep him calm. Fight his fever. Rinse his mouth. Make him drink. Hope. Pray. Wait.”

For a devastating moment, hopelessness threatens to overwhelm Aramis. Infection is a killer. What’s happening to Athos now is exactly what they’d been most afraid of. All of their efforts - the long agonizing ride to the convent, the horrifying procedure, the gruelling spoon-feeding - seem moot now. 

“Is this a consequence of what we did? Of setting the break?” Doubt creeps into his question, and thinly veiled reproach.

Sister Marie halts in her movements, uncorked bottle in hand. She takes a moment to think and from her open expression Aramis can tell that she isn’t offended, only self-critical, mentally going through every step of the treatment they’ve applied so far, questioning every decision involved.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” she finally says, sounding sincere. “All I can tell you is that infection - if that is what we’re dealing with - is a common occurrence with this kind of injury, and it may just as well have happened without our course of treatment. We will never know.”

Aramis’ voice shakes in earnest now. “Be honest - is there a chance of survival?”

She looks at him, golden specks in her eyes reflecting the candlelight. “There is always a chance.” And then, with a sudden spark of defiance, she adds :”We will give him one.” 

Drawing hope from her resolve, Aramis rubs his eyes and runs his hands over his face. Along with his tiredness, he wipes away his resignation. He looks at Athos. Fever chills are running through the sick musketeer in earnest now. Only the bandage is keeping his locked teeth from chattering. Without the laudanum Aramis is sure a pair of fever-glazed, bright eyes would be staring at him now, truculent and stubborn.

 _We can do this,_ he tells himself, remembering Porthos’ reaffirming words to d’Artagnan. _Athos can do this. We’re musketeers. We don’t just give up._

“I need to let Porthos know. He’s outside, getting firewood.”

“And so you shall. Help me prop him up and rouse him first.” She shows him the bottle she’s uncorked. “This is a febrifuge - willow bark, elderberry, peppermint and meadowsweet. Once we have that in him, we’ll start with the cold compresses, and I have an idea how to rinse his mouth more effectively.”

Together, they pull Athos into an elevated position, his body less compliant now, muscles spasming with every shudder. Gently, Aramis cups his good cheek, his thumb stroking the unbandaged patch under his eye. “You need to wake up a little now, my friend,” he tells him and moves his hand to pinch Athos’ earlobe. The musketeer stirs. “Wake up. We need you to fight.”

It is a call to arms, Aramis realises. The beginning of a battle, and losing is not an option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure whether I should include the bed-wetting or not. Really felt like crossing a line. But it is a pet peeve of mine to read stories or watch films with unconscious characters who apparently never need to drink, to eat - or to pee. For the sake of authenticity, I kept it. Athos, if you can hear me - I am really, _really_ sorry.
> 
> Also, Sister Marie is a particularly smart girl and ahead of her time. I'm positive no one in the 17th c ever thought to check anyone's pupils after a blow to the head - I don't think the word "pupil" even existed. But I don't know, and I am pretty sure that, if anyone would've been smart enough to do so, it would've been a nurse or a midwife. IMHO, they were some of history's most fearless and inventive figures.


	10. Wildfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. A business trip abroad, new work projects and lots of RL put writing on the backburner, and I'm afraid updates will be infrequent in the next few weeks. But Athos is hanging in there, and I hope you guys will as well.  
> Today is another one of those days - I've been meaning to edit and post since getting up, but the doorbell keeps ringing, my phone keeps chirping, I have a contractor tearing the exhaust hood in my kitchen aparat and my day off has turned into...well...one of those days.
> 
> I dialled back on the details a little in this chapter. I have to if I ever want to finish this story. But at least I'm finally giving d'Artagnan his little moment with a few paragraphs from his POV. d'Art fans - I hope I got him right.

Secretly, Aramis had hoped that Athos’ fever might only be a mild complication. A passing reaction to the stress that his body has been subjected to, or a simple cold. Athos rarely falls ill, and when he does, he usually doesn’t even bother telling anyone but plows through whatever is ailing him, daring anyone to mention his flushed face, stuffy nose or raspy voice. Even when, due to his enraging self-neglect, an inflamed wound makes him feverish, enforced bed rest and Aramis’ febrifuges normally have him back on his feet after a few days of impatient, sweaty grousing and hostile glowering at every hapless visitor.

This fever is different. It is a wildfire, raging through Athos’ body. Since the fever chills have passed, he’s been a living furnace, lying motionless, radiating impossible heat. His breath is coming in shallow, rapid puffs. They are having trouble getting him to drink. The spoonfuls of water or willow bark tea seem to evaporate on his cracked and increasingly uncooperative lips. Although Sister Marie has held back on the laudanum, fearing it will suppress his breathing, he’s become almost completely unresponsive.

“Come on,” Aramis urges, dripping more febrifuge into Athos’ mouth. “Come on. Swallow.” He strokes Athos’ throat to help, willing his brother’s Adam’s apple to move. 

“More compresses, Porthos!” 

Sister Marie and the Mother Superior are exchanging the cold and wet pieces of cloth on Athos’ head, neck, under his armpits and behind his knees in an endless rotation. They’ve stripped their patient down to his braies and have long discarded blanket and sheet. The fire in the hearth is burning low, casting only scant warmth in order not to overheat the sick musketeer further, but none of them are cold. How could they be, fighting a battle at full force.

“It’s not good enough,” Porthos declares dejectedly, one hand on Athos’ foot as they work on him. Even his toes are hot as coals. “It’s not cold enough. He’s burning up.”

Wiping her brow, the Mother drops another compress into a bowl of cold water.

“What about snow?” she asks. “Can’t we use snow?”

Sister Marie and Aramis exchange a questioning look. Within the last two days, the marksman has developed an innate understanding with the healer. Few words are required. They both nod.

“Porthos, go and get us two buckets full! Fresh snow. Untrodden on, clean, if possible. Go, now!”

The big musketeer rushes outside, both hating to leave Athos’ side and glad to be out of the oppressive atmosphere of the infirmary and away from Athos’ searing heat for a few minutes. In the courtyard, covered in a foot of snow safe for the spider web of pathways the nuns have cleared, he shovels snow into two large buckets. That is when he hears the muted approach of hooves and, shortly after, the nickering and huffing of a horse and the leathery cling-clang of an armed rider dismounting in front of the locked gate.

Porthos stiffens.

“Can anyone hear me?” an impatient, young male voice rings out. “Open the gate!”

_D’Artagnan._

Porthos drops the shovel and swiftly wades through the snow to the locked gate. The thick wooden beams across is frozen to the metal brackets; nobody’s come or gone in the last two days, and he struggles to loosen and lift it.

“Hold on! Damn thing’s stuck.”

“Porthos?”

The big musketeer can hear the Gascon’s smile in his voice. There is a warmth to the lad that spills out of him every time he rejoins his band of brothers. It feels good to hear. 

With a mighty grunt, Porthos yanks the beam loose and pulls the gate open. And there is d’Artagnan, pink-cheeked, cloaked and - as usual - hatless, flashing a wide grin at Porthos as he steps inside to hug him.

“I couldn’t come earlier,” he prattles, tying his grey mare to a post. “Tréville would’ve let me return immediately - in fact, he wanted to accompany me, you should’ve seen him, he was so upset when he heard what happened, but he had to stay for the English ambassador’s visit. However, I had to report to Richelieu before leaving, personally, he insisted, and that’s why it took me two days instead of-” 

He stops his rambling when he sees Porthos’ face.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asks, face dropping. “What - … Athos?”

Porthos nods somberly. He didn’t want to scare the lad and thought he’d put on a neutral face, but apparently the strain and worry of the last two days is all too visible.

D’Artagnan takes a step back, looking shocked. “But he’s not… is he?” It comes out as a whisper.

“No, no!” Porthos hastens to correct him, reaching for the Gascon’s arms and grabbing them. “No, ‘e’s alive. But ‘e’s taken a turn fo’ the worse, runnin’ a high fever. We’re fightin’ it. He’s fightin’ it.”

“God, no!” D’Artagnan shakes Porthos off, already heading for the infirmary. “I need to see him.”

“Wait!” Porthos yells, hurrying to grab the buckets of snow and casting a glance at the uncared-for horse. “Wait, ‘elp me carry these! They’re for Athos. I’m comin’ with you. And you don’t know everythin’ yet that’s ‘appened.”

 

####  xxx

As d'Artagnan hastens across the courtyard and through the corridors of the convent, lugging one of the buckets of snow along, Porthos fills him in on everything he’s missed. He almost collides with the Gascon when, as he talks about Caval’s man showing up wounded, d’Artagnan suddenly stops short. He swivels around, eyes blazing.

“WHAT?!”

“I know. Believe me, I wanted to tear ‘im limb from limb, but Aramis and the nuns kept me from it. Dunno what I’ll do when ‘e wakes up, though.”

Tremors of indignation are running through the young musketeer’s lanky frame as he resumes walking. “The bastard’s still unconscious?”

“Yeah,” Porthos confirms, feeling his own outrage rekindle. “Last I heard, ‘e’s still out cold. But ‘e’s not dyin’ either. Doesn’t even ‘ave a fever. ‘S not fair.”

“What are you planning on doing with him?” An edge is clearly audible in the Gascon’s voice.

“Hand ‘im over to the proper authorities. If ‘e recovers.” 

Porthos’ silent wish that he doesn’t hangs heavily in the air, and d’Artagnan acknowledges it with a nod, but then he throws his free arm up.

“Why waste the time? He’ll hang. Why not execute him here and now?”

They pass two nuns who flinch at the words ‘hang’ and ‘execute’ and shuffle past the upset young soldier with haste.

Porthos shakes his head, reliving every vengeful urge he’s fought down in the past two days. Rage still simmers in him like glowing ember, ready to flare, but he has it under control. For now.

“We’re not murderers, d’Artagnan,” he says gravely. “We’re musketeers. We hold ourselves to a higher standard than this filth.”

At these words, he sees d’Artagnan roll his head in exasperation and hears him puff a resentful breath. The lad is so furious, it’s a wonder there’s no steam coming from his nostrils.

“We’ll see about that”, the young Gascon mutters darkly, his hand clutching the bucket handle more tightly as they reach the infirmary.

 

####  xxx

When he approaches the bed, relinquishing the bucket to the impatient hands of the Mother Superior, d’Artagnan realises that he wasn’t prepared for what he’s seeing. Yesterday, he’d left an injured but peacefully asleep Athos on his way to recovery. Now, he’s returning to a man caught in the throes of purgatory.

Athos’ naturally pale skin is glowing with fever, old scars on his bare chest glinting silver against the febrile flush. Compresses are covering him. The bandage around his face is patchy from sweat, his hair damp, curling into dark corkscrew strands and sticking to his face and neck. Athos’ eyes are closed, but d’Artagnan can see them move restlessly beneath his lids, the left one still puffy, bruises around it deepening into blackish purple. His mentor, a man usually larger than life, somehow always managing to loom in spite of being an inch shorter than d’Artagnan, suddenly looks small and vulnerable. It takes d’Artagnan’s breath away.

“So that’s what took you so long,” Aramis complains and grabs a bucket from Porthos. In any normal situation, the marksman would abandon whatever he is doing to great d’Artagnan with a hug or even a kiss planted on his cheek, most likely both, in Aramis’ case. But nothing is normal, and he barely acknowledges d’Artagnan, his focus single-mindedly trained on their very sick lieutenant.

Rooted to the spot, staring at Athos and the trio of caretakers now exchanging the compresses for cloth-wrapped handfuls of snow, d’Artagnan cannot reconcile the three emotions battling for dominance in his chest - fury, fear and devastation. For a heart-wrenching moment, his memory transports him back to a rainy night, to a dark inn, to men posing as musketeers and to his father lying in a widening puddle of crimson, his body slackening as he dies in d’Artagnan’s arms. With Alexandre d’Artagnan, that firm, guiding presence in his life gone, he’d come to Paris wrecked by loss and the need for revenge. When Athos, swordsman extraordinaire, just as quick and elegant with his blade as he is with his words, had begrudgingly taken him on as a student, d’Artagnan’s initial resentment had quickly turned into adoration. His father’s death had left a gaping hole, and now the man who’s quietly, steadily (even if involuntarily) filled that vacancy ever since is merely holding on by a thread.

“This cannot be happening,” d’Artagnan whispers unconsciously.

“It’s not,” a deep voice says behind him as a large, dark hand descends on his shoulder. “We’ve got ‘im. ‘e’ll come through. Ain’t no reason to fear.”

D’Artagnan releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He dips his head, swallowing a lump in his throat and blinking the sting from his eyes. Athos would kill him if he saw him like this, about to cry like a babe. 

_No. Actually, he wouldn’t._

His mentor, face impenetrable marble, would sling one hand around the nape of his neck and give it a quick, comforting squeeze. And then he would walk away, wordlessly, so that d’Artagnan could compose himself, unwitnessed.

For now, Porthos is an insufficient but well-meaning stand-in for the musketeer lieutenant, and d’Artagnan shakes himself to look up in gratitude.

“What can I do?” he asks Porthos and the room in general. “How can I help?”

Sister Marie, tucking a layer of snow behind Athos’ knees, motions towards two baskets almost overflowing with used and discarded bandages and pieces of cloth. 

“Take these to the laundry. Next to the kitchen. And fetch fresh sheets. As many as they have! We’ll have to change them frequently as the snow melts.”

“And fetch something to eat for yourself, young man” the Mother Superior adds, her kind eyes roaming over d’Artagnan’s slender form. “I can hear your stomach growl, and my ears aren’t the best anymore.”

D’Artagnan nods. “Aramis?” he says, skeptically studying the exhausted-looking medic. “Anything I can bring for you?” Aramis is bent over Athos, his fingers on the sick man’s wrist, his lips moving soundlessly, counting. 

“No,” he says distractedly when he’s finished. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need anything. But if you want to you can- oh no. No. NO!”

“What’s h-?”

But d’Artagnan doesn’t need to finish the question. As he sees Athos’ hands ball into incredibly tight fists, his arms curling involuntarily up and crossing above his stomach, his whole body stiffening and starting to spasm, it is all too evident what is happening.

“Porthos, grab his legs! D’Artagnan, his arms!”

Five pairs of hands hold Athos down as a seizure takes command of his body. D’Artagnan, clamping Athos’ arms to the soaked sheets, watches in horror as Aramis clutches Athos’ head between his palms and forearms and tries to keep it still. Athos’ neck arches, veins bulging while his heels beat a terrible rhythm against the mattress with Porthos leaning his full weight on the dancing legs. Beside him, he hears the Mother Superior break into a prayer while Sister Marie places her hands over Aramis’, aiding to immobilize Athos’ fragile jaw. Even on her face, fright has replaced her customary calm expression.

“How long is this gonna go on?” Porthos shouts, straining against the force of the seizure.

Aramis shakes his head, anxious eyes flicking between Athos’ mouth, teeth bared in an unconscious snarl, and his arching chest. “Until it’s over. Hold him! Just hold him.”

Finally, after an endless stretch of time, d’Artagnan feels Athos’ arms grow limp in his grasp, muscles suddenly relaxing. He sees his fists uncurl to reveal deep grooves in his palms, left by his own fingernails digging into the flesh.

“It’s over,” Aramis announces, unnecessarily, as his and Sister Marie’s hands carefully release Athos’ head back onto the pillow. “You can let him go now.”

“What happened?” d’Artagnan wants to know.

“It’s the fever,” Sister Marie explains, checking Athos’ jaw and nodding to herself, obviously content with the condition of the break. “It can happen when the body’s temperature is too high. We need to get it down.”

“Will he be alrigh’? I mean… a seizure. Ain’t that dangerous? Won’t it cause… damage?” Porthos sounds deeply worried, his heavy eyebrows almost knitting together in a frown.

Aramis is already piling snow on a cloth he’s spread over Athos’ chest. “We will know when he wakes up,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice undermining his matter-of-fact tone.

All of a sudden, d’Artagnan’s legs feel like rubber. He turns away from the bed, from the sight of his exposed, defeated mentor, and only then does he become aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Furiously, he wipes at his face and is about to step to one of the small windows to take a breath as the door to the infirmary is flung open.

One of the younger nurses appears, visibly flustered.

“He’s woken up!” Her breath is coming in gasps, as if she’s been running. “Come quickly! We’re having trouble restraining him. Please!”

In a flash, Porthos is out the door, pistol pulled from his belt. Reaching for his own weapon, d’Artagnan rushes after him.

_Time to pay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure the word 'seizure' was already used as a medical term in the 17th c, but if 'epilepsy' was - why not?
> 
> Sorry, Athos. Again.


	11. Say A Prayer, Keep The Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much work, too much RL, yadayada... Also, I'm learning that juggling several main characters, different POVs and two storylines isn't a piece of cake. Slow and steady does it at his point in the writing process. And saying a few of Aramis' prayers, if I were to believe in such things.

“Unlock the door!” 

The young nun nervously squeezes past Porthos, and it takes her three attempts to fit the heavy key into the lock and turn it. Two other nuns, one of them with blood stains on her apron, are flanking the door, looking frightened. From inside, they can hear an angry man’s voice and the sound of shattering glass.

Porthos pushes the door open, pistol cocked, and senses d’Artagnan following in his wake. Caval’s henchman is fully awake, hunched over on the simple bed, straining against the ropes that secure him to the bed frame. A blood stain is soaking through the bandage around his middle, and he is staring at them through greasy strands of reddish hair.

“Cut me loose, you bloody bastards!” he growls. On the floor, beside the nightstand, shards of a drinking glass and an earthenware jug swim in a puddle of water.

“Not gonna happen.” Porthos reaches the man first and pushes the barrel of his pistol against his stomach, right into the spot of the injury. The man falls back, spewing curses. 

“D’Artagnan, tighten the ropes!”

D’Artagnan follows Porthos’ command with dark glee. The robber yowls as he first loosens the ropes, then reties them firmer than ever, the man’s wrists completely immobilized against both sides of the wooden bed frame without any room to even wriggle. 

“Wait until my brother gets his hands on you,” he gasps, curling up around his wound as much as possible.

“What do we care about your brother?” Finished, d’Artagnan trains his pistol back on the prisoner.

“Because Henri is going to kill you.” A cackle, truncated by a noise of pain.

Porthos’ eyebrows climb to his hairline. “Henri? Henri Caval? ‘E’s your brother?”

“Yes. You thought you killed him? You didn’t. He wasn’t even in that wood! And he’s going to come and get me and send all of you to hell. Smash your arrogant musketeer faces. Like I did with your pretty little lieutenant. Not so pretty any more, is he?”

With a howl of rage, d’Artagnan has his pistol against the man’s forehead before Porthos can stop him.

“No, d’Artagnan! Don’t!”

Panting, his finger on the trigger, the young musketeer is staring at the man’s leering face.

“He has to PAY, Porthos! He HAS to!”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, carefully extending his big hand and placing it gently on d’Artagnan’s outstretched gun arm. “Yes, an’ ‘e will. But not ‘ere. In court. In prison. On the gallows hill in Paris. That’s where ‘e’ll pay.”

It pains Porthos to know this is exactly what Caval’s brother is counting on. He knows they’re musketeers. The King’s own regiment. They have a lot of freedom in their choices, but killing an uncondemned suspect without cause isn’t one of them. More than that; it’s against the law they have sworn to protect.

“What difference does it make?” D’Artagnan all but screams. The death-defying grin on Caval’s brother’s face is fueling his anger, and he’s shaking. “Let’s put him down here and now. No one will know! No one but you and me. We will say it was self-defense!”

His hand still lightly on d’Artagnan’s arm, Porthos wishes Aramis were here. Their medic is the best at talking any of them down and out of a red mist of rage. But Aramis’ swarthy face is not appearing among the pale and frightened ones of the nuns hovering in the wide-open door. Apparently, Aramis has opted to stay with Athos after his seizure and trusts Porthos that he can manage the situation on his own. 

“An’ we’ll both know it ain’t true”, he tries. “It’ll be murder. We don’ kill a man when ‘e’s down, not even a swine like ‘im. Athos never would.”

“Athos is DYING,” d’Artagnan screams, pressing their prisoner’s head into the pillow with the muzzle of his pistol. The man’s provocative grin is slowly beginning to dissolve.

“‘E’s not,” Porthos soothes, his hand now gently closing around d’Artagnan’s arm. “Not if we can help it. An’ even if ‘e were, Athos wouldn’t want this. ‘E wouldn’t want you to carry this. It’ll haunt you. Both of us.”

Sniffing, d’Artagnan casts a sideways glance at Porthos. His brown eyes, blackened by rage, brush his, a trace of insecurity creeping into them.

“You can go,” he says, softer. “You don’t have to be here. I won’t put this on your conscience.”

“I’m stayin’.” Porthos doesn’t budge. “You either put that guilt on both our shoulders. Or you put that pistol down.”

The Gascon wavers. Breathlessly blinking at him, Caval’s brother doesn’t dare to move a muscle. They all know this is the moment that will decide about his life or death. 

And then d’Artagnan pulls the trigger. The pistol’s boom echoes from the thick walls, and Porthos closes his eyes in sorrow.

A painful whimper makes him open them again with a start. Instead of looking at the remains of a human skull, its bloody contents splattered all over the bed and the wall behind it, the scrunched-up looking, intact face of the highwayman is peeking up at him. A thin line of blood trickles from his right ear and into the blackened, smoldering hole in the pillow beside his head.

Satisfied, face settled into an expression of endless repulsion, d’Artagnan blows the smoke from his pistol and walks out the door.

Porthos’ hasn’t sighed this deeply in years.

 

XXX

 

With Robert Caval awake (Porthos’ has quickly convinced him to give up his name, and, sadly, it hasn’t even left much bruising), they’ve installed a roster of keeping watch over their still-bellicose prisoner. The nuns are grateful. They care for the rude and odious man, quietly and efficiently, but in palpable fear, alleviated only by the musketeers’ strong presence. Since Aramis cannot leave Athos’ side, it is up to Porthos and d’Artagnan to swap posts every few hours, watchful eyes on their prisoner as the other one sleeps or eats or helps care for Athos. It is a gruelling course of action, wearing them down to their bones, but now that d’Artagnan has purged his hatred, contentedly registering that Robert Caval is newly deaf in his right ear, they both stoop to the task, telling themselves that they’re doing this for Athos. For their lieutenant who is still alive, still waging war with that fever in the room across the hall. They tell themselves that they’re keeping Robert Caval safely stored away for the day when Athos wakes up, rises from his sick bed and stops the man’s heart with one of his piercing, merciless stares. It helps.

In the infirmary, the fight for Athos’ life continues. A second seizure occurs when, at the fall of night, Athos’ fever spikes again in spite of all their efforts. It is not nearly as severe as the first one - he stiffens and twitches without any of the violent convulsions they’ve seen before, but it lasts longer and his lips take on a bluish tint. When it has passed, colour quickly returns to Athos’ lips and the fever seems to retreat an inch, still burning through him, but no longer threatening to turn the musketeer into ashes. As morning approaches, they find they no longer need to replace the compresses as often, and Athos becomes responsive enough to swallow water and medicine, even if his eyes remain shut.

Aramis has checked Athos’ pupils and takes reassurance from the fact that they constrict and dilate evenly. It is a good sign, as he’s learned from Sister Marie, and yet Aramis is deeply worried. Seizures can cause irreversible damage. He’s seen it before, survivors diminished in body and mind, dragging around paralyzed limbs, slurring their words, their thinking dimmed to the capacity of small children. 

Aramis cannot bear the thought of anything like that happening to Athos. He cannot imagine less light in those sharp green eyes, recoils at the idea of the musketeer lieutenant’s wit and brilliance being reduced to infantility. If Athos wakes as a shadow of himself, matted and crippled… _no_. It’s an impossible thought.

When he is alone with Athos, he prays. One hand on Athos’ chest, feverish heartbeat hammering against his palm, the other hand closed around the crucifix on his necklace, he shuts his eyes and recites prayers of protection, pleas for mercy and - when he’s too tired to remember the lines - the Lord’s prayer, like a mantra, repeated over and over in the hush of the candlelit room. Faith has always been a steadfast presence in his life, even during times when he wanted to walk away from it. His belief in God is strong, but doubt creeps into these dark hours of fear for his friend’s life, doubt mainly in himself. In his ability to understand God’s plan and what part he is to play in it. In his healer’s gift, so terribly insufficient at this point, so inadequate.

“Please, Lord, guide me,” he tells the walls of the infirmary, eyes closed. “Advise me what to do. Help me help my friend.“

“Don’t you think that is exactly what he’s been doing for the last three days?”

Instinctively lifting his hand from Athos’ chest, Aramis opens his eyes to find the Mother Superior pulling up a stool next to him. Her intelligent, calm eyes wander over Athos’ half-exposed body, his skin glimmering in the candlelight, before they settle on Aramis. Crinkled kindness flows from her gaze. 

“I don’t know, Mother.” A wavering sigh passes from his lips. He bows his head and runs his hands through his hair, sticky and in need of a wash. “All I feel is helpless. Powerless.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” the Mother says firmly. “Or on our Lord. The both of you have kept Monsieur Athos alive, and in hope of a healthy future. Considering his condition, that is a small miracle in itself.”

As Athos shifts and sticks his foot out over the edge of the bed, the Mother Superior gently lifts it back onto the mattress and repositions the compress behind his knee.

Voice muffled, chin still on his chest, Aramis sighs again. “We need a bigger miracle, Mother. We need this fever to relent. We need him to wake up. And soon. And with the seizures… I don’t know if he… he may not be…”

Exhaustion catches in his throat. He is too worn out to bring up any tears. Lead sloshes through his veins instead of blood. The stone floor is clinging to his feet. Eyes dry and burning, he catches his crucifix pendant between his fingers. Tries to draw strength from what it symbolizes and from the memory of who gave it to him. 

A bony hand alights on his arm. A mug with warm tea, conjured out of thin air, it seems, is pushed between his hands. 

“Miracles do not come easily,” the old nun reminds him, one hand still helpfully cupped around Aramis’ larger, shaky ones and the mug in his unsteady grasp. “ They are hard work, and you have been working harder than any of us. Our Lord sees you. He helps the ones who help themselves.”

Tea spills as Aramis sits up abruptly. “Then why is he helping Caval’s brother? Why is he letting a man with a _fatal_ wound live while Athos… Why?!”

There it is. The ultimate question that has kept Aramis from taking his vows. Neither celebacy nor obedience, burdensome as they are, could prevent him from devoting his life to God. But the injustice of it all, of everything he’s seen, of what is happening here, and his inability to see God’s plan - that is why, once again, he’s sitting here, and the prayers are increasingly difficult to come.

“I could try to find an answer for you.” The gnarly fingers of the Mother Superior push against the bottom of his mug, lifting it in an invitation to finally drink from it. “I could tell you that God may want Caval to face the judgement of a court. To learn humbleness in prison. To receive his chance at absolution from a priest. Forgiveness from you.”

Aramis flinches in protest.

“But God, I’m afraid, has never been one for straight-forward answers,” the old nun continues. ”It is the questions we grow on, I find. How they make us feel. What they make us do. In your case,” she nods at Aramis, “they have made you a musketeer. And now they are making you a better healer.”

Thoughts swirl in Aramis’ head. Words of wisdom are being delivered to him, by a woman who has loved God and struggled with his mysterious ways much longer than he has. Tired and raw, they don’t quite fix what has come undone in him, but they provide solace that neither Porthos nor d’Artagnan can give. 

“And,” she adds with a fond, mothering look at Athos, “God made this a stubborn one. I could tell when you came with her Majesty. The way he fought. You both did, but you were afraid for the queen. Him - the lad is made of rock and steel. And a good heart tucked safely away underneath it.” She dips a cloth into a bowl of water and leans in to run it over the unbandaged, sweaty parts of Athos’ face. 

A smile tugs at the corners of Aramis’ mouth. “Don’t let Athos hear what you just said when he wakes up. He’s not only stubborn, he is also insists he doesn’t have a heart. ” 

As if in confirmation, Athos rolls his head towards them, brow creased in a frown, but he does not wake.

“Would you like us to pray for him together?” The Mother Superior’s soft question sounds noncommittal.

“Yes,” he answers, and he reaches for the hand she is offering him. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling we're reaching a turning point. Either that or I'm just sick and tired of putting Athos and the boys through hell.


	12. Of Tired Hearts And Open Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. The moment that took bloody _forever_ to arrive. And I've rewritten this chapter so many times I've lost all perspective on how I feel about it. I can only hope I didn't screw it up.

Athos’ fever breaks in the early hours of dawn. As the searing heat leaves him, his breath evens out and his body sinks into the motionless tranquility of deep, healing sleep. They let him, Aramis restraining himself from trying to rouse Athos. His patient needs the rest. But Sister Marie agrees when he suggests they stop giving him Laudanum to better assess his condition when he wakes. Dishevelled and swaying on her feet, Sister Marie retreats to her chamber to rest as well. Before following her, the Mother Superior places her gnarled hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

“I told you the Lord sees you,” she says, and her old eyes twinkle. “And he protects this one.” She tucks the thin sheet they’ve allowed Athos up to his shoulders and strokes his good cheek. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she continues. “I assume there is no use asking you to lie down as well? There’s another bed right here.”

Slumped in his chair by Athos’ side, Aramis shakes his head and smiles tiredly.

“Well then.” The old nun smiles back. “I will return after morning prayer and bring you breakfast. And you will eat it. All of it.” A stern, motherly look, and she leaves.

Aramis sinks back in his chair. Lack of sleep is making him dizzy. A low buzz in his ears is telling him his senses are overwrought and he needs to rest. He could ask d’Artagnan to take over, but the young Gascon is catching a few hours of sleep himself while Porthos is planted menacingly in Caval’s cell. Ever since the incident with d’Artagnan and Porthos’ interrogation afterwards, the highwayman has resorted to quiet pouting and occasional complaints about his treatment and his freshly broken nose. Rocklike, Porthos sits and doesn’t care.

And even if one of his brothers could take over, Aramis wouldn’t accept it. For the last few days, his place has been at Athos’ side and he is not going to leave now. Superstition has him fear that, should he go, he will jinx it. Without his supervision, Athos will certainly relapse. He can’t let that happen, can’t let it all go wrong just when things look to be improving. Of course, it’s a delusion, brought on by lack of sleep, not enough food and the accumulated worries of those harrowing past days and nights. But he can’t help it. He can’t leave his post until Athos wakes up and he sees that he is his old sharp-minded, arrogant I’ll-snap-your-neck-with-a-single-gaze self. 

And so he sits and waits, watching Athos sleep, while the rising sun erases the shadows from the corners of the infirmary.

 

####  xxx

Something - he’s not quite sure what - wakes Aramis from deep slumber, so deep he has trouble making it to the surface. Bright daylight hurts his eyes as he squints and slowly pushes himself up from the edge of Athos’ bed, feeling a kink in his neck. One hand on the bed frame, he drags the other across his face and rubs his neck, eyes closed, rolling his head to ease the stiffness.

Something brushes his forearm.

When Aramis looks, he sees a pale, shaky arm fall back onto the sheet. And, when he turns his head, two pale green eyes looking back at him.

“Oh my God, Athos!”

Sleepiness drops off him like a discarded cloak. He bends over Athos, his hands wanting, _needing_ to cup his face, but he stops himself and grabs Athos’ hand instead. It is warm, not hot. Calloused fingers weakly curl between his palms. 

“Can you hear me, Athos?”

He brings his face so close to Athos’, he can see every bloodshot vein in the sick musketeer’s eyes, the left one still puffy, the black stitches above it moving as he blinks. 

With a delay, Athos nods. His gaze is tired and unreadable. Aramis holds his breath.

“Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Athos lifts a trembling hand - the one that is not locked in Aramis’ grip - and laboriously forms a thumbs up signal. Aramis gasps in relief.

“Oh thank God! Thank you!” He dips his head. For a few heartbeats, he leans his forehead against Athos’ hand wrapped in his. Breathes. Feels the crucifix escape the folds of his shirt and dangle against his chin. 

The brush against his forearm again. When he looks up, he finds Athos miming a cup set to his lips.

“Oh God, yes, of course!” Swiftly, he reaches for the water jug placed on Athos’ nightstand and pours a small amount into a cup. He slides one hand behind Athos’ head to help him.  
“Here, but careful! Don’t move your jaw, just sip. Slowly.”

Greedily, Athos sucks at the cup. Thirst makes him impatient, and they spill half of the water as Aramis tries to slow Athos down while Athos tries to take larger gulps. When the mug is empty, Athos sinks back onto his pillow, completely spent. Setting the cup aside, Aramis watches the lines of pain and exhaustion deepen on Athos’ face.

“How do you feel, my friend?” he asks tenderly.

In response, Athos lets his eyes fall shut and issues a throaty moan before he opens them again. 

“I know.” Sympathy floods Aramis’ chest along with the joy he feels that Athos is awake and lucid. One of his hands finds its way to Athos’ shoulder and lands there, on his newly-cooled skin. “I know. It hurts, and you must feel incredibly sore and tired. But you’re on the mend, my friend. Thank God you are.” 

Slowly, shakily, Athos lifts a hand to his bandaged jaw and points at it. One eyebrow arches in question.

Aramis can barely suppress a grin at the familiar sight. “We fixed it. Sister Marie set the bone. You mustn’t move your jaw. You can’t talk or eat yet. There were complications. You had a high fever. But if all goes well from here on out, you’ll heal. Fully.”

A sigh of relief widens Athos’ nostrils and gusts over Aramis’ bare forearm. Moisture wells in the green eyes and is rapidly blinked away. Aramis feels Athos’ hand squeeze his. Then, gaze brimming with gratitude, Athos touches his fingertips against his own lips and extends his open palm to Aramis.

“You’re welcome.” Aramis can feel his smile spread warmly into his chest. “You’re welcome, brother.”

 

####  xxx

 

A little later, Aramis has to physically shield Athos from the affection of his brothers. Porthos all but lifts Athos from the bed as he hugs him, and Aramis has to step in, cautioning Porthos about the fragility of their patient.

“‘E’s light as a feather,” Porthos confirms grumpily. “Wasn’ much to him before, but now ‘e’s as thin as a weed.”

Athos shoots him a wilting glance. 

Porthos barks a laugh. They’ve all missed being pinned by that gaze. 

“He’ll regain his weight once he can eat properly again,” Aramis explains. Joy is still dancing in his chest, but he’s trying to remain neutral. They may have the worst behind them, but the coming weeks will be gruelling. And Porthos is right. Athos has lost weight already. The fever has drained him, and he can barely stay awake. Getting him back on his feet won’t be easy.

“Constance will fatten ‘im up once we’re back,” Porthos states. At the very last moment, he keeps himself from slapping Athos’ shoulder. 

Propped up on his pillows, Athos attempts an exasperated eye roll that ends in a grimace of pain. Without further ado, Aramis ushers Porthos out the door, ignoring Porthos’ remark about being a ridiculous mother hen.

D’Artagnan isn’t much more careful when he swaps places with Porthos a little later on. The Gascon, relieved from his watch post in Caval’s cell, storms into the room and falls to one knee beside the bed. It’s a touching gesture of reverence, followed by the young musketeer grabbing his lieutenant by the shoulders and leaning in to rest his forehead against Athos’. 

“Gently!” Alarmed, Aramis pulls d’Artagnan back. “Mind his jaw!”

D’Artagnan shakes him off. His eyes, a deep, glowing brown, are fixed on Athos’ face. His expression is a quivering mask, laboriously pulled over too many emotions. 

Exhausted as he is, Athos lifts his hand and wraps it around the nape of the young musketeer’s neck, delivering a light squeeze. D’Artagnan exhales shakily. A silent conversation passes between the two of them. Aramis cannot fully read their minds, but unspoken words of loss averted, of reassurance given resonate in the quiet of the room. 

D’Artagnan breaks the connection suddenly, springing up to turn to Aramis. Face solemn and barely held together, he nods at him. “Thank you,” he says, voice darker and older than the two decades he has on him. Then he pivots and marches out the door, doubtlessly looking for a place to compose himself.

Athos, not quite as poker-faced as usual, casts a wide-eyed, questioning look at Aramis. 

“Don’t worry about him,” Aramis assuages. “The lad’s been scared, but he’s been holding up quite remarkably. There’s been an incident with a gun and a--”

Athos’ eyebrows shoot to his hairline. 

Aramis stops himself. “Never mind. I will tell you all about that once we’ve got some sustenance into you. And some medicine,” he adds, seeing the question mark written on Athos’ face morph into a wince. When he picks the Laudanum up from the bedside table, Athos frowns deeply at the label on the bottle.

“I’m not going to discuss this,” Aramis sighs. “Being in pain is not going to help you rest. And I’m only giving you a small amount to take the edge off. Fight me on this, and I’ll hide the chamber pot.”

Athos’ responsive glower could have cut through steel. Instead, it makes Aramis smirk and his heart sing. 

_Thank you, God,_ he silently praises the Heavens. _Thank you for bringing him back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, Athos. I've missed you. <3
> 
> Oh, and about the “thumbs up“ - I looked it up; it‘s an old military signal that actually existed already at the time, signifying the “all clear” to one’s brothers in arms.


	13. In The Absence Of Armour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is kicking my ass, but I snuck away to see how Athos is doing. The result is an uneventful chapter of Athos getting better and ruminating on the effects of his injury. If you know me, it doesn't get much more peaceful and light-hearted than this.  
> Also, it's fun to invent basic sign language for Athos, but it's complicated to describe in writing.

Days of respite follow Athos’ awakening. Now that his patient no longer requires his constant supervision, Aramis finally gives in to his body’s demand for sleep and, after almost a full day of rest, joins Porthos and D’Artagnan in guarding Caval. Dividing their 24-hour-watch between the three of them makes things considerably easier, and the henchman is almost healed enough to be transported to Paris. In spite of his threats, they have heard or seen nothing from Caval’s brother, but they keep the convent’s gate locked as a precaution and their pistols loaded.

Athos himself sleeps a lot, no longer restless and shifting in his bed, but dropping into hours of restorative oblivion from which he wakes clear-eyed and demanding sustenance. To keep the pain of his healing jaw at bay and help him sleep, they cushion him with a low dosage of laudanum. Athos has been protesting, but Aramis insists, knowing that discomfort will not aid his patient’s recovery. There is another reason, one they are both aware of but don’t talk about. If they stop giving him the laudanum altogether, withdrawal symptoms will set in. At some point, Athos will have to face that demon - one he’s familiar with - but that time hasn’t arrived yet. For now, after the hell he’s been through, Athos deserves some peace. They all do.

 

XXX

 

“Good morning!”

Sister Marie enters the infirmary, carrying a bowl of creamy broth and a cup filled with goat’s milk. Athos gingerly scoots up in his bed, maneuvering himself into a sitting position. His arms are still unnervingly weak and he has to blink through a spell of dizziness, but it’s a small victory. Yesterday, he wouldn’t have been able to sit up without assistance. Between the aftermath of the fever and the weight loss, he is carving out a defiant even if painstakingly slow path of recovery. 

“How are you feeling today?” The nun smiles at him. Her face, too, looks less haggard and tired. 

Before accepting the bowl, Athos gives Sister Marie a thumbs-up and what he hopes is the simile of a smile. His jaw still feels sore and provides a steady chorus of healing pains, sometimes sharp and sudden, sometimes thrumming steadily in the rhythm of his heartbeat.  
As he gingerly sips his broth from a spoon and lets it seep through his clenched teeth, Sister Marie’s eyes rake over him judgingly.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” she says and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “How is your pain? Give me a number.” 

To Athos’ annoyance, Aramis and the nun have come up with a simple but revelatory system to gauge the amount of pain Athos usually claims _not_ to be in. They’ve introduced him to a scale of one to ten, with ‘one’ meaning ‘painless bliss’ and ‘ten’ signifying ‘hellish torment’. They never believe him when he says ‘two’.

Not looking at her, Athos holds up three fingers.

“Three,” she states, pursing her lips. “Which means it’s really a four or five. That’s not too bad.”

From the corner of his eye, Athos scowls at her. The scowl darkens further when the nun wipes a trickle of spilled soup from his unkempt beard with a napkin. As eternally grateful as he is towards her, he still hates being fussed about like a babe. But he swallows his pride and obediently finishes his meal while she flits about the infirmary, checking supplies and exchanging burnt-down candles. 

“Very good,” Sister Marie commends him, taking the bowl when he’s done. “Now the milk.”

Athos grimaces, but he accepts the cup and drinks obediently. Milk has never been his beverage of choice. (They’re all clear on what _is_ his favourite drink, of course.) But being unable to chew anything, milk has turned out to be the easiest way to get nourishment into him, and the two goats of the convent are being pampered by the nuns to deliver it daily. When he looks at his thin arms and legs, at his concave stomach, Athos barely recognizes himself. But since they’ve added the milk and creamed soups to his diet, the weight loss seems to have slowed down considerably.

Following her daily routine, Sister Marie unwraps the bandage from his face and checks the break. Without the tight-fitting strips of cloth tied around it, his jaw feels strangely weightless and fragile. 

“The swelling’s almost completely gone,” Sister Marie comments, hazel eyes brightening. “That’s very good. How does the inside of your mouth feel? Are the wounds closing?”

Another thumbs-up from Athos. The gash inside his cheek has healed surprisingly quickly. Only an uneven ridge has remained. The same goes for the holes in his gums where his two molars are missing. After worrying the tip of his tongue raw on it for days, he’s become used to the gap. In fact, it facilitates eating, serving as the one open gateway for food to make it past his otherwise uninterrupted row of teeth. 

“Still having headaches?” Her fingertips are gently pressing around his left eye, minding the still-healing cut.

Athos shakes his head. His concussion had clung to him past his fever, with recurring headaches and lingering nausea, but he seems to finally have slept it off. The dizziness that remains is, in all likelihood, a result of his weight loss and general weakness. And, of course, there’s the laudanum messing with his senses. 

“These stitches are ready to come out. And you need a shave.” 

Briskly, she walks over to a cabinet and rummages around in it. Water splashes as she fills a bowl. Snipping sounds tell him she’s testing a pair of scissors. There’s the glint of light on steel as she flips open a razor blade and scraping sounds when she sharpens it on a whetstone.

Behind her, Athos is brooding. Although he understands that his left cheek needs to be smooth to apply the garish-smelling comfrey poultice, he knows he looks ridiculous with half of his beard missing. While not a vain man, his dignity has been badly compromised in the last one and a half weeks, and looking like a dimwit is not helping matters. When the nun turns around and sees his disgruntled expression, she smirks compassionately.

“It’ll grow back,” she says and wraps a towel around his neck. “And very quickly, judging by the rate that stubble keeps reappearing. It grows like weed! The same accounts for your hair.”

Dabbing shaving cream on Athos’ cheek, she studies his dark, tousled mob in disapproval. His hair has grown into a veritable mane, twisting into thick curls where it meets the collar of his nightshirt.

Athos grabs her arm, stopping it mid-move. He locks eyes with her and makes a snipping motion with his other hand, then cuts the air in front of her with a decisive left-to-right ‘no’ gesture of his index finger. 

“All right, all right” she replies, unable to suppress a little laugh. “I won’t cut your hair. I promise. At some point, we will have to tie it into a ponytail or braid it, of course, but-”

She stops and laughs again when Athos tilts his head and arches two disbelieving eyebrows at her. He tries to be angry with her teasing, but he finds he can’t. That disarming, mischievous face melts his chagrin almost against his own will. And he owes her. He owes her so much. He releases her arm with a friendly huff and waves at his face.

_Go ahead then._

Still grinning, she resumes shaving him. As she lets the blade slide over his skin with skill and care, she gives him a cheeky side-eye.

“You’re not nearly as intimidating as everyone says, you know?”

Athos doesn’t reply. He remains silent, his hands still in his lap, while she cleans him up, applies the poultice and re-binds his jaw. While meant jokingly, her remark touches upon a sore spot. This injury has laid him bare. Literally. It’s stripped him of his armour and torn down his walls. Any distance he’s upheld between him and his brothers is gone. His trademark characteristics - coolness, stoicism, elusiveness - have been suspended by pain, helplessness and the sheer necessity to yield to his brothers’ and the nuns’ care. It bothers him. It unnerves him. He feels exposed and vulnerable, but at the same time he feels… lighter. Held. 

Now that he is recovering, the need to slip back into his old skin is growing strong. He yearns for the safety of his usual aloof, acrid detachment. At the same time, he dreads it. This injury. It’s changed something, and he’s not certain whether it’s for better or for worse.

“What’s wrong, Athos? Am I hurting you?” Dexterously, Sister Marie has been snipping and plucking at the stitches on his brow, but she halts and looks at him, scissors and tweezers suspended mid-air. Like Aramis, she is uncannily gifted at reading people. 

He shakes his head, drawing a reassuring expression over his features. 

She frowns, copper eyebrows knitting together in thought. “You’re a mysterious man, lieutenant,” she says quizzically. “I cannot wait to have a real conversation with you once you can talk again. Although I am being told that, even without a broken jaw, you are not a man of many words. Which, somehow, I doubt.”

Instead of an answer that he cannot give, Athos winces at the removal of the final, ingrown piece of black thread from his skin. The nun presses her cool fingers against the burning spot.

“All done,” she says cheerfully. “And your friend Aramis is a gifted man. The scar is so thin, it will be barely visible once it’s faded.” She gets up to collect the paraphernalia she’s used and sets about cleaning up.

Athos lifts his hand and traces the scar with probing fingers - a fine, long arch just above his eyebrow, still raised and sensitive to the touch. Soon, it will be yet another obscure mark left on him. A memory. An addition to the map written on his body by danger, violence and brotherhood. Which reminds him…

To gain Sister Marie’s attention, he slaps his hand on the bed. When she turns to him, saying “What is it?” he forms a pistol with his pointer finger and thumb and widens his eyes in question.

“Aramis?” The nun recognizes the sign that signifies the musketeers’ marksman. “I think he’s in the chapel. Do you want me to fetch him for you?”

Athos nods and follows up with a simplified variant of the “thank you” air kiss that’s quickly become part of his new vocabulary. Politeness to those who deserve it is one of the ingrained traits of his that haven’t changed.

“I’ll get him for you.” Grabbing his empty dishes, Sister Marie exits the infirmary. 

Left behind, Athos wearily reaches for a writing slate, provided by one of the nuns who teaches the children in the nearby village. The shaky letters he produces are far from his usual neat and elegant handwriting, but he jots down a few suggestions for his second in command. He may still be weak as a kitten, but it’s no longer a good enough excuse to neglect his duties as a lieutenant of the King’s musketeers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan in this chapter, but I've neglected Sister Marie a bit, and she has become an integral part of this story. The boys will be back on center stage next time.
> 
> And yes, I know, the 1-10 thing is a feature of modern pain assessment, but I figured Aramis and Sister Marie are smart. Why wouldn't they come up with a system like that? It is, after all, very simple, and it makes perfect sense to use it with a patient who cannot talk.
> 
> I can't update often at the moment, but I have the next three chapters basically written in my head. Caval needs to be dealt with, Athos needs to be weaned off the laudanum, and I guess eventually I will have to give him his ability to speak back. In other words - hang in there with me. There are at least three or four more chapters to go. 'Patient' comes from 'patience'...


	14. The Luxury Of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @hobbeshalftail3469 wanted to know which signs Athos uses for Porthos and d‘Artagnan. Here you are, dear @hobbes.

“I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.” Aramis frowns at what Athos has written on the slate. 

Athos grabs it from his lap, wipes it with his sleeve and scrawls new words.

_Not alone. Sister Marie._

“I know. I know.” Aramis runs both hands through his hair, tugging hard. “I _know_ Sister Marie is more than capable of taking care of you. And it _is_ time we brought Caval to Paris. And with his brother still on the loose it _does_ make sense that all three of us go. But you need to be closely watched while healing. You’re still losing weight. What if something happens while I’m gone. I just...” 

Athos grasps Aramis’ forearm, effectively stopping another attack on his hair. Understanding swirls in the musketeer lieutenant’s green gaze. Aramis can almost hear his voice, the surprising gentleness it takes on whenever the swordsman drops his harsh front to reassure a brother in doubt.

_Aramis. You can leave. I will be fine._

Sighing deeply, Aramis nods.

Of course, he’s being silly. It’s been more than two weeks since the ambush. Athos is healing, and while his weight loss is worrisome, his face all sharp edges and hard angles, his ribs showing through his nightshirt, he’s not in danger of starving, and with her clever diet of milk and fattened soups Sister Marie will be able to tide him over until he can manage solid food again. She has also promised to keep him on a minimum dose of laudanum until Aramis gets back. Withdrawal is not something he wants Athos to go through without him. Not again. 

And then there’s Treville’s letter, ordering them to deliver the prisoner to Paris and give a status report on the condition of his lieutenant. Between the neatly written lines, Aramis reads their captain’s worry for Athos, and he’s eager to assuage it.

A father figure to all of them, the musketeer captain has – even if he’ll never admit to it – a particularly soft spot for Athos. It had been Treville who’d believed in Athos when nobody else had. When the young _comte_ had shown up at the garrison, horrendously drunk, bleeding, refusing to give his real name and arrogantly _demanding_ to be commissioned as a musketeer. When, again and again, Treville had had to send Aramis and Porthos to pluck him out of a tavern and sober him up. When Athos had thrown himself readily into fights and duels with the Red Guard, a death wish glowing in the depth of his unsettling eyes.

Ever since, Athos has proven himself worthy and paid their captain back everything he owes him, in words and deeds, including a musket ball he took for the man. So, of course, Treville is worried and wants to know how his protégé is faring. The messenger who’d arrived with Treville’s letter the previous day had been briefed and returned to Paris immediately, but it’s not enough and Treville’s orders are clear - Robert Caval is to be transported to the Bastille and tried and hanged as quickly as possible.

Behind it all, Athos, attuned to Treville’s strategic thinking, has recognized a plan. Robert Caval isn’t important enough to warrant such urgency. There is no reason why he shouldn’t stay locked up at the convent until he’s fully healed and then be transported back with a strong-numbered musketeer escort in a proper prison wagon. Instead, it’s supposed to be now, and just the three of them – Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan - and Caval in the convent’s open cart. Treville, Athos surmises, wants to draw Henri Caval out of hiding. _If_ the highwayman cares about his brother as much as Robert claims, he will make a move. And Treville trusts the musketeer trio to apprehend him when he does.

Which is why Aramis, the best shot of all of them, has to be part of the escort.

“Promise me you will listen to everything Sister Marie tells you.” Still not looking happy, Aramis regards his patient with a pleading expression.

Face serious, Athos responds by crossing his heart. 

Reluctantly, Aramis rises from his chair by the bed. “I’ll let Porthos and d’Artagnan know. They won’t like being used as bait.”

Not finished with his instructions, Athos snaps his fingers. When he has Aramis’ eyes on him again, he closes his right hand into a fist and jabs it into his other palm.

“Porthos? What do you want with him?”

Grabbing imaginary reins with both hands, Athos moves two fists back and forth.

“You want him to… what… ride?” Aramis frowns, but his face brightens when Athos adds a whipping motion to his gesture. “Ah, you want him to drive the cart?”

Athos hums in confirmation. 

“Yes, that would’ve been my choice as well. If Caval tries anything on that cart - and we’ll tie him up and cover his eyes - he will not be able to overpower him. Not Porthos. I swear, he’s the only one who’s _gained_ weight since we arrived at the convent. Sister Marguerite in the kitchen has a soft spot for him. Quite unecclesiastical, really.”

Ignoring Aramis’ attempt at lighthearted banter, Athos points at his own eyes with two fingers, then reshapes his right hand into a dog’s head, two fingers sticking up as ears, the others forming a snout.

Smiling, Aramis takes his request to heart. “I’ll watch the whelp. Don’t worry. Not that d’Artagnan needs much watching anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Receiving one of Athos’ exasperated eye-rolls, Aramis relents. “Alright. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

With another sigh, he pats Athos’ leg and turns to leave. Almost at the door, he turns around again, looking hesitant.

“ Are you _sure_ this is what Treville is intending?”

His sole answer is one haughtily cocked, aristocratic eyebrow.

Aramis huffs. “You know, for a man who’s drugged and half his weight and who looks like a squirrel with a toothache, you’re acting incredibly sure about yourself.” 

Athos snorts and waves him away. Time to pack and get ready.

XXX

At dawn, they’re already on the road. Robert Caval is trussed up, blindfolded and gagged in the back of the cart. Nobody wants to put up with his constant string of curses and derogatory remarks on how his brother will rip all their throats out when he comes and gets him. Porthos sits up front, driving, his gelding tied to the back of the cart and trotting along contentedly; Aramis and d’Artagnan, astride their own horses, are flanking them, pretending to look carefree.

In spite of agreeing with Athos’ analysis, Aramis still doubts Treville’s plan will work. They haven’t heard a peep from Henri Caval. In fact, Aramis has a feeling not much love is lost between the two brothers. Robert claims he was dropped at the St. Christian because Henri knew the nuns would treat his injuries, but Robert is a repugnant, displeasing and simple-minded man - nothing like the cunning, smooth gang leader Henri is reported to be. In Aramis’ opinion, Henri simply may have abandoned his brother, regarding him as expendable baggage. They’ll know soon enough.

While the marksman isn’t too keen on being ambushed - again - by Caval and however many minions he has left, he can tell that d’Artagnan _is_. To the untrained eye, the young musketeer looks relaxed on his horse, at ease and unsuspecting, but Aramis sees the glint in his eyes, attentively scanning the road ahead, and there’s an aura of anticipation to his features, of _thrill_ that is palpable. The impetuous Gascon, that much is clear, still harbors a deep grudge against Robert Caval for injuring Athos. Even though their lieutenant is on the mend, he’ll jump at the chance to take revenge, and their little procession to Paris seems to offer him one. After what happened at the convent, after d’Artagnan’s intentional near miss and the henchman’s ruptured eardrum, their youngest seemed to have cooled off, but clearly he hasn’t forgotten. Athos was right - Aramis _does_ need to keep an eye on him.

As a pale winter sun rises towards noon without anything untoward occuring, Aramis relaxes somewhat while remaining on his guard. Slowed down by the cart, it will take them until dusk to reach Paris. The danger isn’t over yet.

 

XXX

 

_God, this feels good._

Sighing contentedly, Athos leans his head back against the towel-cushioned edge of the tub and closes his eyes. The scent of lavender envelopes him, the warmth of the water caresses his aching muscles. He runs a hand through his freshly washed hair, reveling in the clean feel of it.

When a throng of nuns had dragged the large wooden tub into the infirmary and Sister Marie had ordered him to take a bath, insisting he desperately needed one, he’d balked. Not at the idea of finally getting rid of the filth and grime of his illness - that had been more than welcome. Even with the gentle sponge baths administered by the Sisters, he’d become increasingly self-conscious of the stale aroma of sweat, comfrey and unwashed male he could smell on himself. But he’d barely been out of bed except for a few tentative steps across the room, supported by both Porthos and Aramis, shocked by his own weakness. The thought of climbing into a bathtub, naked, leaning on at least two women had made his cheeks burn.

In the end, his need to clean up had won out. Or Sister Marie’s non-negotiating attitude, he’s not quite sure. A towel wrapped around his hips for decency, sandwiched between Sister Marie and Sister Jeanne, the convent’s sturdy gardener, he’d been frogmarched and maneuvered into the steaming tub. And now here he is, blissfully dunked, with only the Mother Superior keeping an eye on him while bent over a book, giving him as much privacy as possible.

Soaking in the soapy warmth, his mind inevitably wanders to his brothers. They’ve been on on the road for hours now, and no news has arrived. None of them have returned to report an ambush. Either nothing has happened or they’re too far away already, past halfway point which means they’d move on to Paris even after an attack. Athos tries to shed the nervousness he feels, tries to let it seep into the water embracing him. There is nothing he can do from here. In his state, he’d be of no help even if he were with them. The inability to stand by his brothers churns in him, but he calls himself to order. Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan can handle themselves. He trusts them. Treville trusts them. All he can do now is wait and get better, and that is what he will do.

When he clambers back into bed on trembling legs a little later, in a fresh shirt and braies, sliding between clean sheets, he doesn’t think he’s felt this grateful in years. He’s exhausted and dizzy and glad to be able to lie down, and his jaw is throbbing a little, but he feels clean and another sliver more like himself. At least, like the himself who is emerging from the ruins of the previous weeks. The previous _years_ , if he’s honest with himself. If any of this had happened a year ago, he doesn’t think he would have survived. He wouldn’t have _fought_ to survive. 

But things have changed. Anne isn’t dead, and while the memory of her still haunts him, the darkness of his guilt has receded. Joining the musketeers gave him purpose, but without realizing it, spending his days side by side with Aramis and Porthos, and then mentoring d’Artagnan, has given him so much _more_ than that. Against his own will, they’ve anchored him to a life he no longer thought worth living. And since he’s been injured he’s realized, to his own surprise, that he _wants_ to live. It’s a new emotion, one that frightens him a little since it comes with the addition of fear. Not for himself, but for his brothers who should not be out there without him, without their lieutenant who is responsible for them, responsible for their lives, responsible for-- 

_Stop._

Forcefully, he pushes the thought down. His fear is ineffective. They _can_ look after themselves. They _will_ be alright.

When Sister Marie arrives with his dose of laudanum, he skips his usual objections and swallows obediently. Torn between the luxurious feeling of clean contentment and the worry about his brothers, he is grateful for the padding the drug slips between him and the world. When he drifts off into sleep, tired from his bath and pulled into the opiate’s embrace, fear is but a small, distant voice following him into his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, giving Athos a bath was completely irrelevant to this story. But come on. We all know what that first shower or bath after a prolonged illness feels like, and I have a LOT to make up for when it comes to Athos, so indulge me.


	15. What Goes Around...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life. And I had to get over the hump of writing an action sequence involving eight people. Plus, my muse threw a Cormoran Strike ficlet at me that is now half-written and eating my brain. AND I had to do some preliminary research on opiate withdrawal for the following chapters. Oh, and life. Did I mention life?

As it turns out, they’ve underestimated Henri Caval. Although they’ve remained attentive, d’Artagnan feverishly _wishing_ for the highwayman to appear, the first shot takes them by complete surprise. Sheer luck has it that the musket ball bounces off Aramis’ sword hilt instead of drilling into his hip. However, the force of the impact throws him off his mount and while d’Artagnan watches the marksman fall, he sees Porthos dropping the reins of the still-moving cart and diving into its back, to their prisoner, pulling his pistol out. 

D’Artagnan ducks low on his horse, urging the startled mare onward. There’s no use in dismounting; he cannot see where the attack is coming from, and he has to keep up with the cart. Pistol in hand, he tries to scan the frozen forest on both sides of the road while also throwing a quick backward glance to see Aramis scrabbling into the underbrush while his stallion gallops past him in fright.

“Where is ‘e?!” Porthos yells.

A second shot rings out, whizzing past d’Artagnan’s ear. This time, he’s seen the flash and puff of smoke of the gunfire. 

“Up ahead, to the left, behind the boulder!”

“‘ow many?”

“I don’t know!”

“Cover me!”

Popping up behind his grey’s’ neck, d’Artagnan fires. To his right, Porthos climbs back into the front seat and yanks the horses to a stop. D’Artagnan, too, slides off his mare and dives under the cart to reappear on its other side. A third shot barely misses Porthos when he drags their protesting prisoner off the cart’s bed, landing next to d’Artagnan. Unceremoniously, he dumps Caval in the snowy roadside ditch. Trussed up as he is, he just lays there, swearing unintelligibly through his gag.

Another musket ball slams into the board shielding their heads, spraying them with splinters. 

“They’re startin’ to really piss me off now,” Porthos rumbles and balances his pistol on the edge of the cart to fire back, face grim. 

“Two or three?” D’Artagnan asks the large musketeer.

“Gotta be more than one, tha’s fo’ sure,” Porthos replies angrily. “Can’t ‘ave reloaded that quickly, even if ‘e’s two guns.”

D’Artagnan fumbles with his own weapon, trying to reload, hands shaky from stress and excitement. His heart is pounding. “Where’s Aramis?”

“Here.” The marksman’s dark head emerges from the underside of the cart. Grinning, Porthos lends him a hand and pulls him to his feet. D’Artagnan sighs in relief.

“And it’s four men,” Aramis continues. “I’ve spotted them. Two behind the boulder, two behind the large oak next to it.”

D’Artagnan’s excitement spikes. “Is Henri among them?”

“I think so.” Crouched low, Aramis brushes dirt from his doublet and trousers. “He’s a redhead like Robert, isn’t he? One of them’s got hair like fire.”

Another shot ricochets off one of the cart’s wheels.

“...and they’re bad shots,” the marksman adds. “Which is good news for us.”

Porthos frowns. “What’s your plan?”

“I’ll sneak up to higher ground, find a vantage point. See if I can spot them and pick them off.” He jabs a thumb at Porthos. “You and the whelp stay down here and keep them busy. If there’s any of them left when I’m done with them, they’ll either run or attack.”

D’Artagnan nods eagerly. _Attack. Yes, please, let them_. But he also sees Porthos’ face darken.

“I don’ like it. Splittin’ up, you goin’ up there an’ exposin' yourself. The ground's slippery. Easy to slip. ”

Aramis sticks his head up and quickly retreats it when a musket ball sends his hat flying. He grins maniacally. “I’m the sniper, remember? That’s what I’m here for.”

Porthos grunts but otherwise gives up objecting. 

They reload in silence, drawing the occasional shot from their attackers by sticking up a hand or a hat. Quivering in anticipation, d’Artagnan watches Aramis check the Arquebus he carries and strap it to his back. He fastens a second pistol to his weapons belt, then looks up at Porthos.

“Keep an eye on the whelp,” he says pointedly. “Athos made me promise we would.”

Annoyed, d’Artagnan rolls his eyes. While he appreciates Athos’ mentoring and is, somewhere deep inside, touched by his lieutenant’s worry for him, it also makes him feel like a child. He isn’t a child anymore. He’s a musketeer, and he’s a little tired of proving it to them.

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis squints at him skeptically. “You’ve got this?”

“Yeah,” he replies, hiding his annoyance. “I’ve got this.”

With a last pat on Porthos’ shoulder and a cheerful grin, Aramis turns away and prepares to scale the slope to their right. 

“Cover fire,” he commands. “Now!”

And, throwing a condescending glare at their prisoner, he takes off.

Popping up side by side, d’Artagnan and Porthos empty four pistols into the direction of Caval’s men. Those immediately return fire, but the distraction works. Behind them, Aramis stealthily clambers up the steep forest slope and vanishes out of sight, unscathed. A cloud of gunsmoke hangs over them when the woods fall silent and they swiftly reload. 

“How long until they’re out, do you think?” Impatience sizzles within d’Artagnan. 

Porthos shakes his head. “Dunno. No way to tell.”

They’ve just provoked another round of inconsequential shooting when they hear a new sound - the boom of Aramis’ arquebus going off. Sparks fly when the projectile chews a rift into the boulder the robbers are hiding behind. They see two heads duck frantically.

“Hehe,” Porthos chuffs. “Aramis is giving them shooting lessons.”

On the ground, Robert squirms and tries to wriggle away. D’Artagnan stalls him with a boot to his ribs, ignoring Porthos look of mild reproach.

Another sniper shot rings out. This time, it’s followed by a muffled grunt. A brown-clad figure half-emerges from behind the large oak and falls to the ground. 

“One down. Three to go,” Porthos comments wryly.

Then, something unexpected happens. With a battle cry, the remaining men burst from their cover, pistols blazing. D’Artagnan is stunned. Why would they expose themselves with a sniper aiming at them?

 _Moving targets_ , his lieutenant’s voice answers levelly in his head. _They’re harder to hit._

Rather than posing as sitting ducks, Caval’s men are attacking.

Everything happens at once then. The three henchmen barrel towards them, screaming. Steel hisses as they draw their swords. Aramis’ arquebus booms again, but he misses. And then they are upon them and d’Artagnan’s rapier clashes with the curved saber of a tall, red-headed man.

_Henri._

Snarling, the gang leader delivers a few hefty blows. D’Artagnan blocks them, muscles quivering under the effort. Broad, bright-eyed and copper-haired, he is a pale copy of Porthos and just as strong. D’Artagnan feels each forceful strike quake through his arm and body. He will not be able to parry these blows for long. Ducking under a wide sweep and swivelling to resume his stance, he looks for a weakness in the man’s fighting technique. 

_He has a wide range, but he’s heavy_ , he hears Athos inform him in his head. _And heavy means he’s slower than you._

It is true. As d’Artagnan accelerates his movements, sidestepping, evading, swirling, he notices that Henri has difficulty keeping up. From the corners of his eyes, he sees movement, hears the screech of steel on steel - Porthos and Aramis are fighting their own duels to his left and right. They won’t be coming to his rescue. 

_They don’t have to._

Caval stabs at him again, aiming for his chest. D’Artagnan evades and pivots, the red-haired giant being propelled past him by his own momentum, his back now to the Gascon. Unprotected. “YAHHH!” Unable to stifle a battle cry, d’Artagnan swipes at the man’s legs. Caval goes down with a roar, blood spurting from his slashed calves. Two quick steps, and d’Artagnan is upon him, looming over the fallen gang leader, the blade of his rapier pressed against the side of Caval’s neck. The highwayman is still on his belly, legs bleeding, face in the dirty snow. 

“ _Fils de putain_ ,” he curses, teeth gritted. “You dirty little musketeer. You and your friends will go to HELL!”

D’Artagnan is still marvelling at the gall of the man when several things happen at once. 

He hears someone - _Porthos_ \- shout in alarm. “LOOK OUT!” Then he is body-slammed and bowled over. Falling, he hears a loud noise and feels something pierce his thigh. Pain, sharp and sudden, flares in his leg. He lands hard, all air being knocked from his lungs. Behind Porthos who is sprawled on top of him and lurching back to his feet, he sees Aramis burying his rapier in Robert Caval’s barely healed guts. A pistol drops from Robert’s bound hands as his falls. _Where did he get a pistol?_

Then, a roar from Porthos. Through a fog of pain, d’Artagnan watches the dark musketeer lunge at Henri Caval. He is trying to get up, a short dagger in one hand, ready to fling it in Aramis’ direction. But Porthos is quicker. With a ferocious punch, he knocks the highwayman out cold.

“D’Artagnan!” Suddenly, Aramis is kneeling by his side, ripping at his bloody breeches. “D’Artagnan, talk to me! Stay awake!” He sounds urgent. 

“Shit, Aramis, Athos is goin’ ta kill me,” Porthos groans. D’Artagnan feels the large, leather-clad hands of his big brother cupping his cheeks. “I tried to push 'im away, but I wan't fast enough. Stay with me, pup! How bad is it, Aramis?”

 _How bad is what?_ It takes a few confused moments for d’Artagnan to put two and two together - the pistol in Robert’s hand and the pain in his leg - until the realisation settles.

“I’ve been shot,” he hears himself murmur.

“That you have, my young friend.” A smile is now discernible in Aramis’ voice, one of the cheeky sort, and it means that he cannot be too badly injured, for, otherwise, the medic would be using a calmer, more serious tone. “And you’re lucky. It’s a clean through-and-through and the bleeding isn’t severe. It will require needlework, but I think...” D’Artagnan hisses as Aramis pokes at the wound. “...I think you will be fine.”

The marksman’s face is swimming into better focus now, his dark and glittering gaze fixed on the site of the injury. Beside him, Porthos’ grim mien enters his line of vision.

“What did I tell ya,” the large man grumbles, but his gentle hands don’t leave d’Artagnan’s face. “ _Never_ turn your back on a prisoner! Even if ‘e’s tied ‘n’ gagged.”

“I was a… a little busy,” d’Artagnan grunts, teeth clenched against Aramis’ ministrations. Once more, the marksman is repurposing his blue sash, wrapping it tightly around d’Artagnan’s leg.

_We should really buy him a new one._

“Where did he… where did… Robert get the...pistol?” he pants. Satisfaction runs through him at the sight of Robert Caval, lying dead on the forest ground, lifeless eyes staring at the white sky. Revenge, he thinks, is indeed a dish served best cold, and there is real irony in Aramis having been the one to deliver it. 

“One of ‘is _friends_ must’ve dropped it during the fight,” Porthos offers with a derogatory flick in direction of the bodies lying scattered around the cart, next to the still-unconscious, still-bleeding Henri Caval. “Better gonna truss that one up,” he adds and moves to take care of the henchman. “You alrigh’, whelp?”

D’Artagnan has to smile in spite of the pain. The big musketeer is casting him such a worried glance, it’s taking all the intimidation out of his looming frame.

“No, he’s not,” Aramis answers in his stead, tying the makeshift bandage. “But he will be. Let’s get him and Caval on the cart. I’ll stitch the lad up at the garrison. Won’t be long now. He’ll have a pretty new scar to show when we get back to the monastery.”

Tying rope around Henri’s wrists and ankles, Porthos huffs darkly. “Pre’y or not, Athos ‘s still gonna kill me.”

“Both of us,” Aramis says, his smirk fading. “Both of us, my friend.”

The marksman pulls him to his feet and, if it weren’t for the dizziness and the lance of pain through his leg, d’Artagnan would be laughing out loud at the contrite expressions on both his brothers faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you missing Athos in this chapter - watching him slurp more soup and catch up on his TBR while waiting for his brothers' return didn't seem all that interesting. He'll be back in the next chapter.  
> Oh, and I couldn't resist whumping d'Art a little. Poor Aramis and Porthos. Athos will not be amused. *cackles*


	16. Facing Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a transitional chapter, unexcitedly moving things along. But it does feature The Athos Glare™️.
> 
> Unbeta-ed and written with a nasty cold. There be mistakes.

A full week passes until Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan return to Saint Christian. A week during which they’ve witnessed Henri Caval being tried and executed for multiple murder and theft, their reports being essential as testimony. A week that d’Artagnan’s spent first in the garrison’s infirmary and then hobbling around the training ground, insisting that he’s fit for duty, Aramis on his heels, ranting and exasperated. 

The Gascon’s been incredibly lucky. His wound, carefully closed by Aramis, is healing quickly and without any complications. No fever, no infection, manageable pain, and Aramis’ needlework holds in spite of the lad putting weight on the injured leg much too early. Which gives the musketeer medic no reason to leave d’Artagnan behind in Paris when, after a bit of reasoning with Treville who lectures them about their duties in the regiment, they have permission to return to the convent. They’ve sent word back to Athos about the ambush, about Robert’s death and Henri Caval’s trial and execution, but they’ve omitted d’Artagnan’s injury. After all, it’s been irrelevant for their mission. They’ve achieved their objective, the lad is fine, and Athos doesn’t need to be worried during his convalescence.

The weather has let up. It’s still cold, cold enough for the snow to refuse to give ground, but there’s no wind, and they’re travelling under a glorious blue sky, the sun warm on their shoulders and necks. It’s d’Artagnan who’s driving the convent’s cart back to Saint Christian, his grey mare patiently trotting behind - the one concession the young musketeer has made after Aramis had lectured him about riding a horse with a still-healing leg injury. Grudgingly, he’s been nudging the two mighty bays pulling the cart to go faster although, having grown up on a farm, he knows he’ll only tire the animals out prematurely. 

Porthos and Aramis are flanking the cart, chatting amicably, Porthos’ booming laugh at Aramis’ jokes scaring the occasional deer from hiding. As they’re approaching the convent, their conversations grow quieter, for different reasons. Impatience is what drives d’Artagnan into a fidgety silence. He’s eager to see his mentor again, to recount every second of the ambush to his lieutenant. Porthos’ buoyancy is dampened by the prospect of Athos roasting him for letting the whelp get hurt. And Aramis is getting lost in even darker thoughts. Athos has been taking laudanum for weeks now, and if his recovery has progressed as expected, it is time to wean him off the powerful drug. 

Aramis doesn’t know the details, but it won’t be the first time his brother will face the torture of withdrawal. After Milady, the crestfallen comte had been trying to drown his guilt and grief in wine, and when that hadn’t proven strong enough, he’d resorted to numbing his pain with laudanum. But then Treville had offered him a commission with the musketeers, a lifeline, and Athos had known he needed to stop. He’d paid someone to keep him locked in his room, where he’d spent days in hell, all by himself, and then, miraculously, reemerged sober and somehow alive.

Neither Porthos nor d’Artagnan know about Athos’ past addiction. Not even Treville does. And Aramis only knows because of a shameful, whispered confession two years ago. During a mission, Athos had suffered an immensely painful injury but adamantly refused the laudanum Aramis kept insisting he take. Finally, during a long, sleepless night, hollowed out by fighting both the pain and Aramis’ complete lack of understanding, Athos had told him the truth. Had told him about his fear of the drug, of once more getting caught in its alluring grip, about the purgatory of withdrawal and the craving haunting him like a grinning demon. 

Two years ago, they had managed without laudanum. But this time, Athos’ broken jaw had left them no choice. Aramis feels his heart clench at the thought of what is lying ahead. But at least, he keeps telling himself, this time Athos will not have to go through hell alone.

 

XXX

 

Athos is up in Porthos’ face, so close, the large musketeer can see every nuance and swirl in his lieutenant’s furious green eyes. The tips of their noses almost touch, Athos’ nostrils flaring as he exhales, slowly and deeply, like a boiling kettle emitting steam. Porthos isn’t quite sure how he does it, but in spite of the bandage still wrapped around his face, in spite of his still too-thin, almost spindly frame, Athos is utterly terrifying.

Due to his injury, he still cannot say anything, but his slow, damning head shake and his crucifying stare telegraph an unmistakeable message. 

“‘M sorry,” Porthos mumbles, shrinking into himself. “We messed up. We really watched the whelp, but then they came runnin’ at us an’-” 

A menacing head tilt from Athos, and he falls silent, staring at his feet.

Aramis receives the same silent dressing-down, with similar effect. The marksman had been determined to defend himself. After all, it really wasn’t their fault that d’Artagnan got hurt. They’re musketeers. They were on a mission. It was dangerous. These things _happen_.

But somehow, the scathing look in Athos’ eyes, the disappointment radiating off him is enough to make him feel like a six-year-old who’s managed to lose his new boots while wearing them.

“I’m… it was… we were…,” he starts and stops again, wilting. To his relief, Athos turns his stone-faced expression away from him and sits down in the armchair that’s become part of the infirmary’s furnishings. Although Aramis could have done without his wrath, it’s good to see the injured musketeer lieutenant back on his feet, even if his energy is still limited.

“It really wasn’t their fault,” d’Artagnan cuts in, stepping in front of Aramis. “I mean, they saved me. If Aramis hadn’t killed Robert, I wouldn’t even be standing here. He would’ve shot me. And then Henri wanted to kill Aramis, and Porthos saved _him_. By knocking Henri out.”

Athos frowns at the confusing report of their youngster. The exact course of the ambush still remains a bit nebulous to him. Or possibly it’s his concentration that’s still wanting. He’s been pushing himself, getting up and out of bed for longer intervals every day, but he’s still weak. Things have been looking up since Sister Marie loosened his bandage a little a few days ago, allowing him to part his teeth just a tiny little bit and thus enabling him to eat pureed foods. Who knew that mashed potatoes could taste so heavenly? He’s still forbidden to chew or talk, but his enriched diet has not only lifted his mood but also let him regain a little of the weight he’s lost. When he’d slid out of his nightshirt and put on his regulars clothes again a few days ago, he’d had to stamp extra holes into his belt, and his trousers had hung about him as if they were Porthos’ and not his own.

And there’s the laudanum. His body has become so used to the drug that Athos could swear it has no effect any longer, but he knows better. Without the opiate, the discomfort of his healing jaw would be much more pronounced, his sleep less deep and dreamless, the workings of his mind sharper, unsoftened by the drug. He remembers this stage from his first dance with this particular devil. When being under the spell of the laudanum had stopped being the exception and become the rule. When the colours and the delusions, the liquid comfort and blessed detachment had faded to a new normal, a muted, slightly more sedate reality that stopped being placid altogether the moment he stopped swallowing the laudanum. _Dependency._ It’s a harmless little word for a monumental mess.

“Athos? Are you all right?”

Athos blinks and looks at the young Gascon still standing in front of him. This is what happens. His attention drifts. 

“Uh-hu,” Athos affirms, voice scratchy from disuse, schooling his features into a neutral expression. 

D’Artagnan regards him worriedly, scanning him for signs of pain or a fever. Flickers of fear still light up in the young musketeer‘s eyes, and Athos realises that the lad is not over the shock of seeing him so very sick and wounded. Loss or the risk thereof is something d’Artagnan hasn’t learned how to handle yet and, big as his heart is, he probably never will. Life will teach him, that much Athos knows, and he feels a pang of hurt knowing that he won’t be able to protect him from the experience. 

To break the tension, he points at d’Artagnan’s leg, his eyebrows forming a question mark. Upon their return, none of them had dared to confess that their youngest was carrying an injury, and he’d vainly tried to conceal his limp. But Athos has spent many hours sparring with the young man. He knows his body language, the unbridled energy inherent to each of his movements. It had taken Athos all of two minutes to notice that the normally impetuous Gascon was walking with untypical caution and that Aramis was casting nervous glances at his leg.

“Oh, my leg’s fine,” d’Artagnan answers his lieutenant’s silent inquiry. “It was a through-and-through. Not much harm done. Two small scars. If Aramis wasn’t such a mother hen, I’d already be sparring and riding again. But you know how he is.” His warm brown eyes perform a dramatic eye-roll. “He can’t stop fussing.”

Athos smiles fondly at his report, his anger at the two other musketeers fading quickly. They are still in the room, hanging back, waiting to see if their lieutenant’s anger will reignite. It doesn’t. Whether it’s the injury or the laudanum that’s softened Athos’ disposition - he cannot hold a grudge against these two who have cared for him so devotedly in recent weeks and who - he’s secretly certain of that - did their best to protect d’Artagnan from harm. 

He waves the marksman to him. 

“Yes?” Aramis, still a little wary, looks from Athos’ eyes to his hands, waiting for instructions or a question.

Athos points a finger back and forth between himself and the medic and then forms a chattering beak with his hand.

_We need to talk._

“Just you and me, or should Porthos and d’Artagnan stay,” Aramis asks.

Athos shakes his head and makes a shooing motion in direction of the two others. They look at each other, frowning a little, but they leave. A delicious smell is wafting into the room from the hallway, and food appears to be more enticing than enquiring about Athos’ secrecy. 

When they’ve closed the door behind them, Athos picks up the bottle of laudanum from his nightstand and shows it to Aramis. Laying more determination than he feels into the gesture, he makes a left-to-right quitting motion with his free hand. 

“I know,” Aramis says, sighing. “You need to stop taking it. But it’s going to take a lot out of you. Are you sure you’re ready?”

 _No_ , Athos thinks.

 _Yes,_ he nods, pushing all arguments away why they should delay, knowing he would find them if he gave in to the call of the drug. 

“All right then,” Aramis agrees, sounding heavy of heart. He pulls up a chair to sit down in front of Athos and places the writing slate into his friend’s lap. “Then let’s discuss how we want to do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those waiting for Athos‘ book stack to be revealed - that’s going to happen! Give me a minute. This calls for careful deliberation. Athos and I take our TBRs seriously.


	17. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: drug withdrawal
> 
> I have no personal experience with the process of opiate withdrawal (thank God), so what I'm describing is based purely on research, imagination and dramatic licence. If this is a difficult topic for you, please skip the upcoming chapters. I'll let you know when it's over in the chapter notes.
> 
> For the rest of you - you wanted Athos in withdrawal. You're getting him. 
> 
> Unbeta-ed and written in a haste.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

_Damned be the devil._

One hand reaching for the bedpost to steady his still-wobbly legs, Athos abandons buttoning his leather doublet and straightens his shoulders to face his friend. He locks eyes with Aramis and jabs an urgent thumb over his shoulder, at the window behind him and the courtyard beyond.

“You want to go outside.” It’s not a question, it’s an incredulous observation that Aramis underlines by crossing his arms over his chest.

Defiance in his gaze, Athos nods.

“Why, if I may ask?” 

Athos spreads his arms, making an annoyed sweeping gesture at the infirmary and follows it with his hand sharply cutting across his own throat. He’s sick of all this, of being stuck inside, of sitting here doing _nothing_ , of the infuriating _quiet_ of the infirmary, and if he doesn’t get _out of here right now_ he is either going to go mad or kill someone.

“I know you’re sick and tired of being laid up in here,” Aramis echoes his thoughts, and yet somehow his voice, warm with understanding, grates on Athos’ nerves. “But I really don’t think you’re ready to go outside yet. Look at you! You can barely stay on your feet. And it’s not exactly spring outside.”

After a few beautiful, calm winter days, a fresh layer of snow has fallen over night, and the sun is a milky haze, its warmth not reaching the ground.

Huffing, Athos ignores the marksman’s objections and returns to closing his doublet. No one, _no one_ is going to keep him inside today. His scalp prickles. 

“Great. Great idea.” Aramis throws his hands up in exasperation. “Let’s take you outside, into ten inches of snow, across icy cobblestone, so you can slip and break the _other_ side of your jaw.”

Athos doesn’t even deign the sarcastic remark with an answer. Finished with his doublet, he reaches for his hat and jams it onto his head, over the itching bandage. He marches across the room and all but growls at Aramis who steps between him and the door. 

“Athos,” the medic says in that calming tone that somehow makes Athos want to _punch_ him. “Stop it. You know what this is, don’t you?”

Not listening, not _able_ to listen through the white-hot anger that is surging through him, Athos grabs Aramis by the shoulder to shove him out of the way. But he’s still weak and no match for Aramis who easily catches his wrists in his hands and stops him. Deep brown eyes look firmly into his.

“Athos. Think! This isn’t you. You know what’s happening here. This is the laudanum.”

Or, rather, the lack thereof. After discussing the process with Sister Marie, they gave him his final dose of the drug last night. It’s almost noon now. Having forgone his regular morning dose, Athos is officially five hours overdue. 

“Irritability. Anxiety. That’s how it starts, remember?”

It takes a moment for Aramis’ words to penetrate the crackling tension between them. But when it does, Athos experiences a strange moment of looking at himself from the outside - his face nose to nose with Aramis’, distorted with rage, his balled fists trembling in Aramis’ grasp, the tightly coiled menace of his body, this close to attacking his friend, his _brother_ \- and his face falls in shock.

_Oh._

His fists uncurl. His shoulders sag. Aramis notices, his eyes going soft, his hands releasing Athos from their grip, and Athos can barely look at him. Shame creeps up his neck, and he dips his head.

“It’s all right,” Aramis says cautiously. “It’s all right. Look at me.”

Embarrassed and a little frightened by himself, Athos lifts his gaze again. His heart is pounding. Tension still hums through him, a dangerous current, but for now he sees what it is. That doesn’t make it easier to meet the gentleness in Aramis’ eyes.

“It’s all right,” the medic repeats and steers Athos back into the room to sit him down on the bed and put one steadying hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I have you.”

Athos nods, one of his hands closing around Aramis’ arm and squeezing it. 

_Thank you. I’m sorry._

The hand on his shoulder answers with a reassuring pat. 

“It’s fine. Let’s take that hat off and get you out of that doublet.” 

Athos nods and lets himself be manhandled out of his leathers. A fine tremor has begun to manifest in his own hands, and he feels his mind leap from anger to agitation. Although he’s being stripped to his shirtsleeves, the room suddenly feels smaller and stifling. A knot forms in his stomach.

“Here, drink this.” A mug is placed into his hands, containing watered-down wine. “It’ll take the edge off, but go slowly. You haven’t had a drop in weeks, and you’ve lost weight. It’ll take effect quickly, and I need you responsive.”

While Athos takes a first sip, the sour, diluted taste making him grimace, Aramis leaves his side and heads for the door.

“Stay where you are,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

When he returns, Porthos is with him, a dutiful expression plastered on his face. Instead of coming closer, he merely nods at Athos and takes post beside the door in the wide, evenly balanced stance they all assume during long hours of guard duty. Athos notices that he’s not carrying any weapons, but he’s put on his sturdy leather doublet. Glumly, he realizes it’s a protective measure for all of them - the nuns, his brothers, himself; in his weakened state, Athos will not be able to get past Porthos, but he also won’t be able to get hold of a weapon and hurt anyone. He swallows. 

“Don’t mind Porthos,” Aramis says lightly. “Just see him as your guardian angel. He still needs to work on the wings, but other than that, he’s qualified for the position.” His joke falls a little flat, but Athos appreciates the effort.

A knock on the door has them all turn their heads. In fact, it startles Athos who feels like jumping out of his skin. When Porthos opens the door, Sister Marie enters, breaking up the tension with a friendly smile and a steaming mug in her hands.

“I heard someone might be in need of a calming cup of tea,” she says kindly and walks straight up to Athos, her keen gaze roving over him. He pulls back a little as she approaches, uncomfortable with his own skittishness. Why is he so wary, all of a sudden? Everything feels alarming, tingling his senses. 

“This will help a little with the anxiety,” Sister Marie answers his unvoiced question. “Tastes bitter, I’m afraid, but the valerian will do you good.” She places the mug on the nightstand. “Finish your wine, and then drink as much of the tea as you can. You’ll need all the fluids you can get.”

Turning to Aramis, she says: “There’s more of the valerian tea mixture on the shelf behind you. The calming draught he took to so well is right next to it, but the tea will be easier on his stomach. Use the ginger and peppermint when he becomes nauseous.” And in Athos’ direction, she adds evenly: “Watch that jaw if you have to vomit. The break has started to fuse, but if you can help it, don’t open your mouth too wide. Aramis will be here to help you.”

Athos knows the nun isn’t one to beat around the bush, and while he appreciates her straightforwardness, her instructions aren’t exactly making him feel better. Then again, no amount of sugar-coating would. It’s better to face this beast head-on, and Sister Marie knows it from experience. 

“Thank you, Sister.” Aramis scans the shelf, making sure he knows where everything she’s mentioned is. “If you don’t mind, I think it’s best you leave now.”

The two healers exchange a knowing glance, and Athos understands that they must have agreed on this beforehand - that Sister Marie will stay out of harm’s way, out of reach of Athos’ withdrawal-induced unpredictability. The thought shocks him, but it makes sense. And the last thing he wants to do is hurt the woman who saved his life.

Hazel eyes flashing, the nun leans down to him and gently cups his good cheek with a warm, dry hand, disregarding his involuntary flinch.”It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” she says gravely. “But you know how to do this. I’ve seen you walk through Hell in those last few weeks, and this is only the final stretch on the way out. I will pray for you. We all will, but I don’t think you need our prayers. Hell has no claim on you.” Her thumb blesses Athos’ forehead with the sign of the cross. He closes his eyes in deference, his heartbeat a quicksilver thrum underneath his crawling skin. 

“Call for me if you need my assistance.” Her touch has left him and she’s talking to Aramis now. “Whatever it is, don’t hesitate. You know where to find me.”

“We will, thank you.” 

When Athos opens his eyes again, she is gone and, instead, something seems to shimmer and flit in the shadowy corners of the room. Sweat breaks out on Athos’ back and upper lip, and he shudders.

“Cold?” Aramis squats in front of him, extending one hand to check his forehead for a fever, but Athos cannot help shrinking away from the touch. 

_No_ , he shakes his head. _Yes_ , he nods. 

He remembers this. The icy fire kindling in his bones, all those years ago, the fingernails of withdrawal clawing at his back. Ghosts lurking in the dark, a whisper against the nape of his neck.

“Athos? Drink this.” Warm hands substitute the mug of wine he’s still clutching for the warm tea Sister Marie brought. 

Athos’ hands are shaking as he brings the mug to his lips and sips the bitter tea. In front of him, Aramis’ eyes are too big and worried. Behind him, Porthos looms like a sculpture, dark and ominous. A rivulet of sweat travels down Athos’ spine, and he fights against the sudden urge to run, to get away from the thing that is breathing down his neck and making his stomach lurch.  
Gasping, he gropes for something to hold on to and finds Aramis’ knee. 

“It’s all right, Athos. Relax.” The voice of his brother is caring, but somehow distant. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

 _He’s wrong_ , Athos thinks, primal fear tugging at him from all sides. _Oh, he’s wrong._

He remembers this, too. The tumble down a steep slope, the anger giving way to unfounded panic. Reality becomes a thin sheet full of holes; monsters stare at him through the tears in the fabric. The mug drops from his hands as a violent chill rocks him. Disoriented, he tries to latch on to Aramis’ voice, a soothing chant in the storm that takes him. This is where it starts.

_Hell is here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my research, the first symptoms of opiate (morphine) withdrawal occur within 6 - 14 hours after quitting and include mood swings, irritation, agitation and anxiety, followed by the onset of flu-like symptoms. At least that's what I went with in this chapter. Don't tear my head off if it's an inadequate representation. Remember that this is fan fiction. If I ever get paid for writing a 17th c musketeer in withdrawal, I'll happily consult a team of expensive experts and do this properly.


	18. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: drug withdrawal
> 
> This is where I draw dramatic licence. I don't think withdrawal would lead to this IRL, but I can't be sure. And this is Athos. If he does take a dive, he dives deep.

“Athos, listen to me! You need to drink this! It’s tea. Only tea. Not...whatever you think it is. It’s safe. YOU are safe.”

A mug of willow bark tea in his hand, Aramis approaches the figure huddled in the corner of the infirmary. Wild eyes flash at him, shivers running through the thin frame of the musketeer’s body. Aramis isn’t even sure that Athos recognizes him.

A high fever has joined all the other frightening symptoms that Athos has developed over the course of the day - the agitation, the hostility, the anxiety escalating into paranoia, the frightened, absent stares of the musketeer that make Aramis wonder what phantasies are being conjured from his friend’s febrile imagination, which of his ghosts have arrived to haunt the candle-lit infirmary. Aside from his brother’s death and the damage he’s suffered at Milady’s hands, Aramis doesn’t know much about Athos’ past, about his family, about what he’s done or lived through before joining the musketeers. There never was a need to know, but now he wishes he was privy to his brother’s fears and regrets, to more of the experiences that have shaped the man who is now cowering in front of him like a spooked animal, facing whatever is catching up with him alone and unable to communicate. 

“Athos?” he tries again, reaching out a hand to lure the man out of his corner and, if possible, back into bed. “Athos, you have a high fever. This tea will help. It’ll make you feel better. I promise.”

It’s no use. Fever-glazed eyes flick back and forth between Aramis and some invisible source of fear lurking behind him, and Athos tries to melt back into the wall. His nose is running profusely, his cheeks are flushed, and from the way he keeps hugging his arms and chest Aramis concludes that he is hurting. Sister Marie spoke of symptoms akin to a severe ague, and if his own experiences on that front are anything to go by, Athos’ very bones are aching. He doesn’t even want to think about his jaw and what it feels like, the painful knitting back together of his bones no longer subdued by medication. 

“Aramis? Want me to try?”

Porthos has been a quiet, steadfast presence throughout the day, doing his best not to appear menacing to an increasingly fearful Athos. He’s watched Aramis keeping a connection between him and their ailing brother as long as possible, has seen Athos slipping in and out of himself - one minute a sharper, more hostile version of the man he knows, the next this _stranger_ snarling and whimpering, thrown about by rage and terror without cause. Several times, when Athos had seemed about to make a run for the door, Porthos had widened his stance and braced his shoulders, prepared to stop his friend. But so far, his intimidating size and aura have cowed the confused musketeer enough to abort any attempts at escape. 

“Maybe ’e’ll listen ta me,” Porthos offers, taking a step into the room to witness an immediate, reactive flinch from Athos. “‘E’s scared of me. Maybe ‘e’ll listen if I threaten ‘im.” 

Aramis sighs, not taking his eyes from Athos. He wasn’t prepared for this level of delirium.

“It’s worth a try. We need to get this fever down. It’s making everything worse. I’m sure he’d be thinking much more clearly if we could get some febrifuge into him and cool him down.”

Even without touching him, Aramis can see that his brother is burning up. The veins on the sides of his neck are pulsing out a fast, feverish rhythm, and heat akin to a roaring fire is radiating off Athos’ body. They’ve been here before, and aside from the phantasmagoria that the high fever is aggravating, Aramis is secretly afraid of another seizure.

“I’ll take the door,” he says to Porthos, retreating. “Let’s hope this works. Otherwise, we may have to restrain him.”

Slowly but surely, Porthos steps in front of Athos. Hiding his dismay at the sight of him is difficult. It was bad enough when he was sick and helpless. But this - Athos’ confusion, his face distorted by fear, wide eyes bulging - is even worse. 

“Athos,” he begins, laying authority into his voice. “I am ordering you to get out of there. You are a musketeer, and I am your superior. It is a violation of the regiment’s code of conduct to disobey me. Now step out and follow my orders!”

The situation is absurd. The idea is absurd. But it seems to work. Maybe it’s an automatized reaction to military jargon. Maybe it’s a sliver of recognition. Whatever it is, it’s making Athos struggle to his feet and stand, canting his head.

“P’thos?” he whispers through clenched teeth, the bandage preventing him from speaking clearly.

The big musketeer relaxes his stance. “Yeah. Yeah,’s me. Come ‘ere now. Come!”

Athos takes a tentative step, wiping his nose on his sleeve with a loud sniff.

“That’s it,” Porthos encourages, stern face resolved into a smile. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. You need to- ARAMIS!”

Catching him by surprise, Athos has flitted past him and is making a break for the door. When Aramis stops him, he’s astonished at the strength his sick comrade is displaying. Although he’s clamped both arms around Athos’ thin ones, holding him against his chest from behind, Athos fights him with all he’s got. His legs lift off the floor as he bucks against Aramis; one of his heavy boots skins Aramis’ left shin, and when, with Porthos help, they finally have him under control, Aramis’ nose is bleeding from a head butt.

“This can’t continue,” Aramis pants and wipes the blood from his nose. He looks at Athos, twisting in Porthos’ strong arms, the bandage around his head coming loose, guttural sounds coming from his throat. “He’s going to hurt himself. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but we have to restrain him.”

And so, with heavy hearts and hating it every step of the way, they wrestle Athos onto the bed and use strips of linen to tie his wrists and ankles to the frame. 

Athos whimpers, a string of half-choked _No!’s_ coming from his mouth, and Aramis prays that he’s not tearing his jaw bone apart again. When they have him secured on his back, Porthos holds his head and Aramis hastily reties the bandage, firmer than before, leaving him just enough range of motion to drink.

“‘Is jaw’s good?” Porthos asks, shaken.

“Yes.” Aramis swipes a hand across Athos’ hot cheek, ignoring the man’s desperate efforts to get away from his touch. “Yes, I think so.”

“We need to calm him down.”

“I _know_ ,” Aramis snaps at him. He’s overwhelmed, and he knows it’s making him lash out. Running both hands through his hair, looking at the now-silent, panting figure on the bed, eyes darting around the room still looking for an escape, he admits defeat.

“Get Sister Marie,” he tells Porthos. “And d’Artagnan. Maybe they can get through to him.”

“You good with’im for a moment?”

“Yes. Go!”

Porthos nods and rushes out.

 

XXX

 

His mind in shreds, Athos stares at the man stooping in front of him. He holds something in his hands, emitting steam ( _A weapon, surely, he wants to hurt him. Or does he?_ ). If he could only remember where he’s seen this face before - swarthy, dark hair messy, oak wood eyes - maybe he would know what to do, whether to attack or to run or to listen to the words coming from the man’s moustached mouth. But his head hurts, it’s _pounding_ , and he cannot distinguish words from sound, from the susurrus oozing from the walls. The man’s face flickers, too, one moment friendly and inviting and human, the next dissolving into a moiré of shadows and flames. 

It would be best to run, but there is another figure looming large behind the stranger _(He’s not a stranger, his name is Aramis. No, it’s not.)_ , blocking the dungeon’s exit. He reminds him of Porthos, his friend, but he’s bigger, stretching toward the ceiling, skin blackening. A giant. _How will he get past a giant?!_ But if he doesn’t try, he will die. Tomorrow, at dawn, they will execute him for murder, and he cannot even remember the name of the man he’s supposed to have killed. A Gascon. Or was it a woman? 

The stranger and the giant trade places, and he recoils. A third figure walks past behind them, diaphanous, red dress swishing over the stone floor. She’s wearing a thick necklace, no, a _rope_ around her neck. A hangman’s noose, cut off and trailing down her back. An overwhelming smell of forget-me-nots widens his nostrils. Feline eyes graze his burning skin. Everything hurts.

_I’m sorry I killed you I’m sorry forgive me_

“Now step out and follow my orders!” A command reaches him. The voice giving it sounds familiar. 

“P’thos?” He hears himself whisper, and the giant smiles, but he’s not going to fool him. This isn’t Porthos, it can’t be - _why would Porthos keep him in a dungeon?_ \- and he’s not falling into his trap. Instead, he orders his aching muscles to flex, his heavy, heavy body to move as fast as he can, and he bolts for the exit. 

Anne is gone _(where did she go?)_ , but the stranger stops him, arms like vices closing around him. He fights, _oh he fights_ , but the giant and the man who should be Aramis but isn’t pin him down. They shackle him and bind his terribly aching jaw shut, and he knows he’s ruined his last chance at escape. 

At dawn, he is going to die.

 

XXX

 

When Sister Marie and d’Artagnan enter the infirmary with Porthos, Aramis is busy trying to keep cold compresses in place around Athos’ writhing body. He’s tucked them under his shirt and pushed them against his neck. They should’ve undressed him before restraining him, but it would’ve been impossible.

Sister Marie doesn’t lose much time asking questions. She feels Athos’ face and neck, the worry lines above her nose deepening, then she turns to her medicine cabinet and reaches for a febrifuge.

“He won’t drink it,” Aramis tells her.

“That’s what Porthos said,” she responds, uncorking a bottle. “But we have to keep trying. He’s burning up. Has he been lucid at all?”

“No. Not for hours. Not since his fever spiked.”

She shakes her head. “I’d hoped his symptoms wouldn’t be this severe. He never does anything half-heartedly, does he?”

Sighing, she looks at the musketeer, reduced to a feverish, sweating and semi-conscious shadow of himself once more. When she approaches him with the spoonful of medicine, he turns his head away and clamps his lips shut, haunted eyes gleaming.

“How can I help?” D’Artagnan has been hovering in the background, intimidated by the sight of his mentor out of his mind and in restraints. “What can I do?”

Athos suddenly stills. Slowly, he rolls his head and blinks at d’Artagnan. A sliver of recognition, of the Athos they know crosses his features. 

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis barely dares to breathe. “Do you see this? Keep talking!”

“Athos? Can you hear me?” The young musketeer goes down on one knee to better meet his lieutenant’s eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

No one moves when Athos nods. Losing their expression of fear, his eyes roam over the young Gascon’s face, and his taut face relaxes into one of wonder. His dominant hand twitches against the strap holding it down, as if he’d meant to reach up and touch d’Artagnan.

“Th’mas?” A faint, incredulous whisper.

“Who’s Thomas?” Sister Marie asks softly, unmoving, not wanting to break the spell.

“His brother,” d’Artagnan answers, not breaking eye contact with Athos. “He’s dead.”

An uncomfortable silence ensues. Porthos and Aramis know Athos had a brother and that his wife is responsible for his death. They don’t know the full story, like d’Artagnan does, ever since that fateful night when Anne almost burnt the former Comte de la Fère down with his estate. But they are just as affected by the thought that their fevered brother is seeing his dead sibling in the young Gascon’s face.

“Tommy…” Athos breathes, sounding almost childlike. “Wh-” Unable to use his hands, wincing as the effort to speak hurts his jaw, he strains to bring his face closer to the apparition bent over him..

On pure instinct, d’Artagnan acts. He doesn’t know how on earth Athos sees his brother Thomas in him. He’s has no idea whether it’s his voice, his youth or some other unknown similarity he shares with his mentor’s younger sibling. But whatever it is, he has to use it.

“I’m here, brother,” he says, sliding one hand around the nape of Athos’ neck to help him keep his head up. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Athos gasps, his lips quivering. The look on his face - so much _hope_ \- breaks d’Artagnan’s heart. “But you’re sick,” he says quickly, around a lump in his throat. “And you need to drink this. It’s medicine. It’ll help you.”

Having caught on quickly, Sister Marie has measured a hefty portion of febrifuge into a cup and slips it into d’Artagnan’s hand. His palm still supporting the sweaty, terribly hot back of Athos’ head, he lifts the cup to his mentor’s mouth. And Athos sips obediently.

“Good. Rest now.” D’Artagnan gently lets Athos sink back into his pillow when he’s swallowed everything. “I’ll be here. Just rest.”

With a shudder, the older man relents, his body still tense, muscles rippling against bouts of pain, skin erupting in goose flesh. His eyes don’t leave the Gascon, still a little wary, making sure he doesn’t disappear all of a sudden. But for the first time in hours Athos doesn’t seem to be scared out of his mind. 

The others have quietly stepped back, out of Athos’ direct line of sight. Aramis motions toward the bowl of cool water and the compresses waiting to be used. D’Artagnan nods and wets one of the pieces of cloth to wipe Athos’ face and place it on his forehead.

“This is cold,” he explains to him and keeps his voice warm and caring. “But we need to bring your fever down.” 

Licking dry lips, Athos rolls his head to press his cheek against d’Artagnan’s cool and wet palm. His eyes close, at peace for a moment, but d’Artagnan is shocked to feel the heat of his skin. While Athos seems to doze, he applies compresses to every naked patch of skin he can reach with Athos still in his shirt and trousers. All the while, he murmurs soft reassurances, his voice spinning a safety net for the delirious man in his care, both wishing and fearing he’ll come to his senses to realize that he’s his musketeer brother and not his real one, dead and lost long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I wouldn't make it as bad as before. Apparently, I was lying. I am a terrible person.


	19. Dark Before The Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: drug withdrawal
> 
> Hang in there, Athos! It's almost over.
> 
> @libraryv, the last part of this chapter is for you!

The febrifuge and the cold compresses work. D’Artagnan manages to get more tea and water into Athos, and as he cools down, his mind gradually begins to clear. There’s an unsettling interlude of him becoming extremely confused, obviously vacillating between reality and a dream world where his younger brother is still holding vigil at his bedside. One minute, he regards d’Artagnan with unguarded trust, the next he frowns uncertainly to look crestfallen a moment later. 

“Thomas?” he asks with a small voice during one of those instances, and it’s not clear whether he’s addressing his brother’s ghost or looking for him, puzzled by his disappearance and d’Artagnan’s sudden presence in front of him.

“He’s not here,” d’Artagnan tells him. “But I am. I’m here. Rest easy. Everything will be fine.”

They can tell he’s returning to himself when he stops trying to speak and, instead, his hands curl into sign language again - a round cup shape for thirst, a drilling finger for pain, a cocked pistol when, for the first time in hours, he asks for Aramis and recognizes him as he bends over Athos to find out what he needs.

There’s shame, too, when he becomes aware of the restraints around his wrists and ankles. 

“We ‘ad to,” Porthos explains woundedly. “You were hurtin’ yourself an’ tryin’ to run off. ‘Ad to get your fever down.”

Athos nods, avoiding Aramis’ gaze as he unties the straps and applies a poultice to the reddened skin on his wrists.

“How do you feel?” the medic asks him, frowning at the accelerated pulse he feels under his fingertips.

In reply, Athos places one hand on his stomach and winces.

“Cramps?” 

A pained nod. Beads of sweat are forming on Athos’ forehead.

“I’m afraid that’s to be expected,” Sister Marie chimes in from behind them. She’s already busy steeping ginger root and peppermint leaves in hot water. “Nauseous as well?”

Athos nods again and, indeed, his flushed cheeks have given way to a greyish pallor. There’s something else new in his face, Aramis notices. A gnawing hunger in his eyes, red-rimmed, pale and burning with need for something that is gone. Aramis doesn’t mention it. Of course, Athos’ body is craving the drug it’s just been deprived off. But unlike his physical symptoms which they can alleviate with tea and elixirs and compresses, there is no treatment that’ll silence the call of the drug. 

As night turns into day again, Athos remains mostly lucid, but he’s traded mental agony for the physical variant. Violent stomach cramps leave him curled in on himself, trying to hold on to his bowels and stomach contents. Sister Marie’s medicines help stave off the diarrhea, but they can’t prevent him from retching helplessly into a bowl that Aramis pushes under his chin while the nun supports his fragile jaw. It’s a nasty business, leaving him more and more hollow and disgusted with himself.

Thank God Aramis has sent Porthos and d’Artagnan away to get some sleep, knowing they’ll have to take turns watching over him. The lad in particular needs to give his still-healing leg a rest, no matter how nonchalant he is about the injury.

Beneath the clamour of Athos’ body, every bone screeching in pain, his guts about to turn inside out, a whisper has built into a voice, insisting and seductive. _You don’t have to do this_ , it tells him, demanding surrender, requesting liquid, bittersweet sedation. _You don’t have to be in so much pain._

Everything is clearer without the drug cushioning his senses, in a too-sharp, piercing way. The taste of ginger - fire on his tongue; the sour, sick smell of his own skin - revolting; Aramis‘ sympathetic gaze - unbearable; Sister Marie’s caring touch - an impossible weight. The shapes of the infirmary stand out in stark relief, and pain no longer feels like a muted shudder but like an earthquake, tearing him apart at the seams. If this is reality, he isn’t sure anymore he wants it.

Between the tremors, his watering eyes and the muscle spasms that bend his limbs into grotesque forms, he fights against the rising voice, trying to listen to those of Aramis and Sister Marie instead.

“Drink this,” they say. “Breathe,” they prompt him. “Hold my hand,” they offer, and it’s Aramis’ warm, calloused palm sliding under his that he clings to like an anchor in a storm. 

The room is dark once more, bathed in the glow of a low fire in the hearth, when Athos feels that he is losing ground in the battle he is fighting. He’s alone with Aramis who’s patiently fed him another mug of medicinal tea to settle his stomach and keep his fever at bay when the voice multiplies and the chorus soars into a deafening crescendo. His stomach drops and pushes back up, up his throat, and Aramis is barely quick enough to get the bowl under him when he gags and purges everything his brother just got into him, trying not to unhinge his jaw. When he’s done, reduced to a shivering empty shell, ribs rubbed raw from the inside, mouth awash in bitterness, he is _truly_ done.

 _I can’t do this_ , he thinks, the chorus erupting in cheers. And, as if from afar, he hears himself beg. “Ar’mis… _please…_ ”

The kind brown eyes hold his. A soothing hand pushes his sweaty hair out of his face and comes to rest around his ear.

“No, Athos,” Aramis says, softly, but with resolve. “I’m not giving you anything. You can do this. I know it feels as if you can’t, but I know how strong you are. Hold out just a little longer. It will get easier. I promise.”

Rage makes an attempt to get him what he wants. His shaky hands grab Aramis by the collar, but he is too weak to do anything but hold on.

“You can do this,” Aramis repeats, peeling Athos’ fingers from his shirt and keeping both of his hands in his. “We can do this together.”

And that is how they spend his second night in hell. 

 

XXX

 

The next day spits Athos out like the indigestible ingredient of a spoiled meal. Sleep never found him, and his stomach is still tied in knots. Involuntary twitches plague him. His bones are filled with lava that has only just begun to cool. But he is able to keep a little broth down, and his fever has burnt itself out. Exhaustion is an overwhelming weight playing tug-of-war with the nagging burn of his craving. He still doesn’t put it into words, that _need_ akin to bloodthirst, that ravenous _hunger_ that gnaws at him. The writing slate by his bedside remains blank, and he refuses to invent a sign to describe the screaming void the laudanum has left behind, demanding to be filled. Not expressing it, to Athos, means denying the drug some of its power.

What helps the most, at this point, is distraction, and they all find their ways of providing it.

Porthos is a born storyteller. Unable to have a conversation with Athos, he falls back on reminiscing. Each of their past missions, from his mouth, is an adventure that comes with heroics and reasons to erupt into full-bellied laughter. While, almost as an aside, he washes Athos’ face or massages his aching limbs, he talks about pranks played at the garrison, Treville’s fatherly antics, their legendary run-ins with the Red Guard - all of which turn into fond memories as he recounts them in his deep, comfortably rumbling voice. When he runs out of Musketeer adventures, he shares memories of his time in the Court of Miracles - embellished, sugar-coated but with a clear message of resilience and friendship being the guiding force through hard times. 

Sister Marie, during her watch, fills the room with a steady hustle and bustle as she checks her supplies, grinds herbs, mixes oils and cuts new bandages out of sheets. The clinking of class, chopping of a knife, snipping of scissors and pouring of tea provides a soothing white noise for Athos who follows the nun around the room with his eyes, grateful to have company without being the permanent centre of attention. Of course, she’s by his side at every sound of distress, giving him medicine and passing him a never ending string of mugs filled with tea, water or wine. She renews his bandage and even shoos him out of bed and, blanket-swaddled, deposits him in his armchair to change his sweat-soaked sheets. But except for the occasional uplifting remark - “Your jaw looks good.” “That cut has healed well.” “You look a lot better than yesterday.” - she leaves him be, her bright and confident attitude a steady wall of defense against the dark moods that still assail him. The bottle of laudanum, Athos notices, is missing from the medicine cabinet, and he doesn’t ask her where she put it, although _something_ in him desperately wants to know. From past experience, he knows that this particular kind of desperation will take a while to pull its claws out of his flesh and release him. But this time, he won’t be fighting alone. 

D’Artagnan, too young to own a treasure chest of stories like Porthos does, takes advantage of the stack of books which Athos has hoarded in his corner of the infirmary, courtesy of the convent’s surprisingly comprehensive library. Having expected ecclesiastical texts, d’Artagnan is astonished to find a selection of books that are anything but, and, to his even bigger surprise, books in different languages.

“You know Latin?” he asks a restless Athos who’s propped up in his bed, arms wrapped around his aching middle. More incredulous than impressed, d’Artagnan leaves through the thick tome. “ _De bello gallico_ ,” he reads slowly. “What is that? _Bello_ \- that means ‘beautiful’, right?”

Too shaky to write a correction on his slate, Athos merely rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” d’Artagnan revises, pointing at drawings depicting battle scenes and maps showing the strategic placement of regiments. “Probably not.” He grins sheepishly.

Reaching for another book, this one delicate, bound in well-worn, soft leather and containing multi-coloured calligraphy in verse form, he raises his eyebrows. 

“And what language is this? Arabic? Hebrew? Greek?” 

Athos nods to the latter. 

“Christ,” d’Artagnan exclaims. “You know Greek as well?!”

Athos deigns him with a bored look that is only a little ruined by his scraggly hair and generally miserable appearance. 

D’Artagnan shakes his head, huffing. “Of course you do,” he mutters, marvelling at the beautiful, gold-plated lettering in the book. “You were probably _forced_ to learn it, what with being a Comte and all that.” And, looking at the title, the one word spelled in familiar print, he asks: “ _Sappho_ \- is that a title or a name?”

Exasperated, Athos takes the book from his lap and opens it to a page showing the drawing of a beautiful woman in an ancient greek robe.

“Ooohhh…” d’Artagnan breathes. And then, after a further, thorough inspection of the woman’s depiction, he grabs the book and slams it shut.

“Well, I obviously can’t read this one to you. What else do we have here that’s in a language I can actually understand?”

Ignoring another shudder running through Athos and the suppressed wince that goes with it, d’Artagnan digs through the rest of the pile. He dismisses what looks like a medical journal complete with gruesome anatomy drawings, makes a bored face at a compendium of French history and shakes his head at a collection of handwritten essays that seem to address philosophical questions. _Good grief_ , he thinks, _has Athos never heard of ‘light reading’_? Finally, he comes across another tome that seems to be a novel. 

“ _Amadis of Gaul_ ,” he reads out loud, turning to a bookmarked page. “I see you’re nearly finished with this one. Must be good?”

He throws a quick glance at Athos and helps him close his trembling fingers around the wine-filled cup he’s reaching for. Sister Marie hasn’t been too happy about replacing one drug with another, but Athos has been so brave for so long that she doesn’t have it in her to deny him its numbing effect.

“Well? Is it any good?” 

Hunched over, fighting off another stomach cramp, Athos merely nods. Worried, d’Artagnan watches him breathe through it and inconspicuously places a bucket within reach. But the cramp passes and Athos sinks back, face pallid and drawn. He tiredly lifts his hands, presses both palms against each other and opens them, mimicking a book. Then he points at d’Artaganan and then at his own ear.

“You want me to read it to you?”

A half-lidded nod. 

“As you wish.” Pleased to be able to do something, d’Artagnan opens the novel to its marked page and begins to read. He’s never been much of a scholar, and reading has only ever been a necessity for him and not something he enjoys. Unlike Athos who sticks his nose into a book wherever he can find one, stories don’t interest him unless they are told over a jug of good wine or by a campfire. So, he’s surprised when he finds himself further and further drawn into the adventure he reads to Athos, his voice becoming more and more animated. It’s an exciting story. There is a brave, handsome knight fighting a monster covered in scales and breathing poison, and when the knight emerges from the fight, drenched in his own and the monster’s blood, d’Artagnan looks up to find Athos smiling at him - that lopsided, pleased smile he hasn’t seen on his lieutenant’s face in weeks, a little faint, but so familiar. Still smiling, Athos makes a rotating gesture with one index finger.

_Go on._

Enthralled, d’Artagnan continues reading until the candles he’s lit are all burned down. When he lifts his head with no inkling how much time has passed, he finds that Athos has finally fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else wasn't surprised that Athos is a reader? When choosing books for him, I spent several happy days researching the French literature of the 17th c. Chivalric and pastoral novels became _en vouge_ during that time, "Amadis de Gaula" (Spanish, but a French translation became quickly available) and "Astrée" being the most popular ones, both of them multi-volume books that were added to by other authors (who would've guessed fan fiction already existed back then?!). While "Amadis de Gaula" was a chivalric adventure novel featuring fantastic creatures, magic and audaciously defending love outside of wedlock, "Astrée" was the story of two star-crossed lovers (a sheperd and a sheperdess) with multiple unrelated stories branching off and adding to the world it was set in. I had to decide between "Amadis" and "Astrée" for Athos - and ended up thinking that a star-crossed love would remind him too much of Milady, so I chose "Amadis".  
> I also figured that, having been raised to become a comte, it would be feasible for Athos to have been taught Latin and Greek. I'm not sure if it was canon for aristocratic school boys of the time, but I loved the idea of Athos secretely being able to understand old languages, so I went for it. Having suffered through "De Bello Gallico" in school myself and with Athos being interested in military strategy and history, that choice was obvious. As for Sappho - I just love her poems and wanted Athos to love them too. Don't ask me how a volume of her poetry ended up in the convent's library. I like to think that some traveller left it and that the Mother Superior was open-minded enough to keep it, even if hidden behind more... uhm... reputable books until she pulled it out for Athos.


	20. The Curse Of A Gift

Three weeks later, Athos is sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, and Sister Marie unwinds the bandage from his face for the last time. She hadn’t been able to suppress a smile when he walked into the room - upright and confident, in charge of his body, his movements fluid and with an elegant swagger to his stride. 

Her patient is still a little on the thin side, but he looks dainty instead of unhealthy now, lean musculature returning to his arms and torso ever since she’s allowed him to start light sword practice. The weight gain is most obvious in his face. His eyes, while remaining his most striking feature, no longer seem too big for his face, shadows underneath almost vanished, and his cheeks are fuller, chin less jutting. She’s let him grow his beard back, and he’s trimmed it into even shape. It’s a softer, younger face she’s looking at now, a handsome face framed by clean shoulder-length hair, swept back in a half-ponytail and curling against the collar of his shirt. His transformation from a sick and grimy looking man back to a dashing Musketeer is complete. 

“Well,” she says, taking a step back and dropping the bandage into a laundry basket, “this is it. This is the moment where I tell you that you are allowed to speak again. And eat normally. It’ll feel a little odd at first, and you may experience some soreness in your jaw, but that’s the muscles getting used to doing their work again, and any discomfort should disappear within a few days. Warm compresses will help.”

Aramis, who is the only other person present to witness this memorable moment, grabs Athos’ upper arm and squeezes it affectionately, face beaming. “You’ve done it, my friend. I knew you would.”

Sister Marie hears pure joy in the medic’s voice.

There is a moment of nervous anticipation. One hand on his chin, Athos moves his jaw back and forth a bit, testing. He licks his lips, and Sister Marie sees his chest move as he takes a deep breath. Then, for the first time ever, she hears him speak a full sentence.

“I don’t-” He clears his throat. “I don’t know what to say.” A shy smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “I’m… Forgive my inaptitude. It appears that during my period of enforced silence my conversational skills have suffered to an embarrassing degree.”

Athos’ schooled eloquence doesn’t surprise Sister Marie, and neither does his aristocratic cadence. He’s speaking slowly, exactly, making sure to enunciate each word carefully, and she hears Aramis exhale in relief at his clear and unimpaired speech. What surprises her is his timbre - a soulful, creamy tenor that smoothes out as his initial hoarseness passes, so different from the pain-distorted utterances she’s heard so far. 

“There is, in fact, only one phrase which springs to my mind,” he continues, sliding from the table to stand. “One phrase which _requires_ saying and, in all fairness, frequent repetition in subsequent days.” The corners of Athos’ eyes crinkle as his smile reaches them, and his right hand lifts automatically to form one of the first signs he invented all those weeks ago - a touch to his lips and an opened palm in Sister Marie’s direction.

“Thank you,” he accompanies the familiar gesture, a whole world of meaning resonating in that dignified phrase. “You saved my life,” he adds and swings his uncanny bright gaze to his Musketeer brother. “The both of you. I do not assume that I will ever be able to repay the debt I owe you, but rest assured that I will strive to do so as long as I shall live.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Sister Marie answers, touched by his words, but also a little amused by the lieutenant’s stilted, mellifluous way of expressing himself. “You’ve been a brave and obedient patient, and I am pleased to release you from my care fully restored.” And, knowing that it is an unseemly remark for a woman of her status, she adds: “I will miss you. You and your brothers, and I regret to see you go.”

They will leave in a few hours. There is no reason to delay, and she knows that Captain Treville is as anxious to have his four Musketeers back at the garrison as the four of them are to return to Paris, Athos in particular. She can’t blame him. Most of his days at Saint Christian were filled with darkness, and of course he’s eager to leave them behind. 

Athos smirks. “Forgive me if I cannot quite share the sentiment,” he confirms her thoughts. 

“But you should know,” Aramis cuts in, “that we will spread word in Paris about a great healer residing at Saint Christian. I suppose that Doctor Lemay, the King’s own physician, will be most interested in studying your methods of treatment. He is a forward-thinking man and may want to pay you a visit.”

A surge of pride is quickly squashed by a twinge of fear in Sister Marie’s chest. “Forgive me,” she says. “But I must ask you to refrain from mentioning my name to any of your superiors. And, please, advise your captain not to talk about my skills any further than he has already done.” 

“You are too modest, Sister,” Athos tells her. “Humbleness is a great virtue, and one demanded of a nun, but I’m certain the Mother Superior highly appreciates your competence in medical matters and would not oppose spreading the word. You could help a lot of people.”

“It’s not that,” Sister Marie replies, her mind racing. So far, she’s been able to avoid sharing her past with the Musketeers, but it seems the moment has come to reveal the truth to them. “If word gets around, it might put me in danger.”

Athos’ eyebrows climb north. “How so?”

“I told you,” she points at Aramis, “that I worked as a midwife and healer before joining the convent, but I didn’t tell you why I changed my path.” Memories flood her, and she has to steady her voice, immediately coloured with old fury. “The truth is that it wasn’t by choice. After treating a magistrate’s wife, I was accused of... performing witchcraft.”

She hears Aramis exhale sharply. He stems his hands into his hips. Athos’ eyes narrow.

“The trial was a farce. I was sentenced to death.” Another noise of shock from Aramis. Athos doesn’t move. “I owe it to my father’s influence that the sentence was suspended. He was a merchant with connections to the royal court. I was released under the condition that I would leave town and recluse myself in a convent, vowing to keep my healer’s work restricted to within its walls. I fear that stirring up old resentments against my practices could lead to an arrest.”

In front of her, Athos’ face has remained neutral, but she can feel tension humming through him. In contrast, Aramis is an open book and voices his outrage openly. “ For Heaven’s sake,” he hisses. “This is.. I hardly know what to say! God has given you a gift, and these… _people_ …” He shakes his head. “I am so sorry, Sister Marie.”

“Me too,” Athos echoes, emotions simmering in his bright gaze. 

Aramis walks his tension off in a few circles, then looks at her with curiosity. “May I ask - if you don’t mind answering - what it was you treated the lady for? If it’s not too intimate.”

Sister Marie straightens her shoulders. 

“The magistrate’s wife and her husband had been attempting to have children for several years. She became pregnant four times, each of them ending in a miscarriage, the last one almost killing her. She was afraid of trying again. She didn’t want to die attempting to produce an heir.” She pauses, bracing herself for a reaction to what she is about to say. “ I educated her on methods of how to prevent another pregnancy and provided her with the necessary means. Her husband found out. I don’t think I need to explain any further.”

Loaded silence fills the room. She can see the cogs in Athos’ head turning. Aramis, this time, is speechless.

“An unfathomable injustice was done to you,” Athos eventually states, in that slow, clipped tone she’s still getting used to. “One borne of ignorance, arrogance and - it shames me to say so - male stupidity. Your hometown has deprived itself of a great healer, and it saddens me to know that the women you helped have been without your assistance ever since. I wish times were different. I hope they will be, one day.”

“You don’t condemn me for interfering with God’s will?”

“It should be the woman’s choice whether she wants to risk dying in childbirth. Not God’s.” 

Athos’ clear statement warms in Sister Marie’s chest. After everything she’s learned about the Musketeer lieutenant, she had hoped for sensibility and understanding from such a well-educated man, but not necessarily for approval. And certainly not to such an extend. 

“What about you, Aramis?” 

The marksman is stroking the crucifix pendant around his neck as is his habit whenever he is mulling something over. 

“You are a man of God. Am I a sinner to you now? Are you not at least worried about my soul?”

Releasing his necklace, Aramis shifts his weight on his other leg and then looks at her, a decision in his eyes that can’t have been easy to make.

“No. Your soul has earned its place in Heaven, Sister. I have seen your work, and I know God blesses you for it. You were trying to spare a life when you helped that woman, risking your own. Your motives were pure. There is nothing to condemn.”

Sister Marie nods. She didn’t need these men’s approval, but she is glad to find out she has it. It will keep her safe, and hope rises in her chest. If two traditionally raised men, one of them a son of the nobility, the other a devout Christian, are willing to accept a woman’s sovereignty over her own body, over her own life, then there is hope that others will, too, and that things will change for women like her.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely. “I appreciate your support, and I trust that my secret is safe with you.”

When both of them nod solemnly, she feels the need to change the subject. It is a day that should not be worn down by such seriousness. A day that proves to her that her vocation as a healer is, indeed, a gift from God, putting her in the right place at the right time to perform a small miracle. The result of which is now standing in front of her, restored to full health, and ready to leave.

“I have assembled a few supplies for you,” she says, pointing at a small wooden chest. “A tonic and a few teas for Athos that will help in your continued recovery. The calming draught I gave you on that very first day. And for Aramis I’ve had Sister Clara copy one of my medical journals on the treatment of fractures and resulting infections. I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me to assume you would be interested in having it for future reference.”

Face lighting up, Aramis opens the chest and finds the leather-bound book. He touches it reverently. “You are an angel, Sister! It will be most useful. I cannot thank you and Sister Clara enough. What a generous gift!”

“I can only agree. Thank you.” There’s that shy smile on Athos’ face again, his hands twitching to perform the sign he has become so accustomed to using. The Musketeer lieutenant looks so familiar and so different now, without the bandage covering his wide cheeks and restraining his facial movements. The same intense green eyes, the same impression of a quicksilver spirit glimmering beneath a quiet surface - but there is a natural ease to him now, mind and body working in accordance, without the stress of having to hold himself together somehow. 

Sister Marie returns his smile. “You are welcome, lieutenant.” Something in the way Athos carries himself now makes her use his military title; an air of _command_ that he has about him, of control and authority absent during his long weeks of recovery. “ I will rest easier knowing you have everything at your disposal to aid in your continued restoration.” 

Giving her one of his ceremonial-looking head dips, Athos turns on his heels and leaves the infirmary, already discussing garrison matters with Aramis on their way out.

Sadness wells up in the nun when the door closes behind the two men. As much as she understands the Musketeers’ urge to depart: She had been looking forward to long conversations with their restored leader, to find out more about what is going on in that clearly intelligent head. She would have loved to discuss the ideas in all those books he’s devoured while bedridden. In her years at Saint Christian, she has come to appreciate the quiet of its protective walls and the close-knit community she has grown a part of, but as much as the Mother Superior tries to feed Sister Marie’s ever-curious mind with knowledge and new challenges - sometimes she misses a likewise mind to talk to, an outsider’s view to enrich her small world. Aramis has been a wonderful conversation partner in all things medical, eager to learn and never shying away from contradicting her. But in Athos, she feels a true kindred spirit, an equally inclined thinker interested in a broad variety of subjects, and it will take many prayers to overcome her egotistical wish for intellectual stimulation and once more embrace the convent’s values of ascesis and humbleness.

Fighting the gathering clouds of melancholy, she turns to her medical cabinet. Athos’ treatment has severely diminished her supply of febrifuges and calming draughts. The pot containing comfrey poultice is almost empty, and she’s refrained from even attempting to distill new poppy milk with Athos still around. Sister Marie rolls up her sleeves. It is time for her to replenish her arsenal and prepare for the day when her skills and medicines will be needed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A time jump! In one of my overly detailed, snail-paced fics! But I really wanted Athos to get better now, and quickly, and I thought the stark contrast between the ghost from three weeks ago and this newly dashing young man would make his recovery more striking. Don't worry, he's still struggling a bit, but since this chapter isn't written from his POV, you can't tell.  
> And yes, I gave him a half-ponytail which technically doesn’t make an appearance until S3 while this story is post S1-ish. But it’s my story, and I love the half-ponytail. Sue me.
> 
> And, finally, a chapter from Sister Marie's POV. I wanted her outside perspective on Athos (and a female one on top of that, allowing me to verbally swoon a bit over our strapping lieutenant, within Sister Marie's chaste limits), and I wanted to finally reveal her backstory. I think she's earned it.
> 
> With a bit of a shock, I've realized that this story is almost at its end. Unless my wayward brain has other ideas, there will be one more chapter and then an epilogue. I can't even begin to tell you how strange that feels. THANK YOU to everyone who's stuck with me and this story! I hope I can bring it to a worthy end.


	21. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter, yes. But there will be an epilogue which is already written.
> 
> Someone hold my hand. This feels so _strange._

A breath of spring is in the air when they step out into the convent’s little courtyard where their horses are waiting, their few belongings, supplies and Sister Marie’s chest already strapped to their saddles. The snow is melting, and Athos sees snowdrops peeking out of the shrinking, dirty white patches still clinging to the shadowy areas of the courtyard. A valiant sun hangs in a pale blue sky, and the wind has lost its icy claws.

“Give our best regards to the Queen, should you meet her,” the Mother Superior tells Athos as she accompanies him to his black Frisian. “She is a brave woman and always welcome at Saint Christian.”

“I will.” Athos gives his stallion an affectionate pat on the neck. “She will be delighted to hear you’re well.”

“I think she will be even more delighted to have her Musketeers back. One of them in particular.” Her blue eyes sparkle in Aramis’ direction. 

Athos huffs and rolls his eyes. Sometimes, he forgets what a perceptive and smart woman the Mother Superior is. He tightens the saddle girth and turns to the old woman.

“You never cease to amaze me, Mother,” he says. “And I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. For me.”

“You can thank me by looking after yourself. The next time we meet, I would prefer it _not_ to be at the occasion of a crisis at court or a life-threatening wound.”

“I will do my best.” 

He gives her a fond smile and doesn’t move when she reaches up and cups his newly healed cheek in her hand, her gnarly thumb stroking his beard in a tender, motherly gesture. 

“Go with God, son.” 

“Thank you. I will.”

D’Artagnan sidles up to them, already on horseback. As usual, he’s itching to get moving. The wound in his leg has healed, and he is the only one among them who loves long rides, even more so after having been laid up for a while.

“Ready to leave?” he asks, impatient.

Athos nods. 

“Then let’s go, or it’ll be dark before we reach Paris.”

He leads his grey mare in a circle and directs her to the gate where Porthos is just about to climb on his gelding.

Athos is more than ready to leave, and at the same time he isn’t. That terrible day almost two months ago when he’d been half-carried into the infirmary, bleeding and wrecked by pain, has seared itself into his memory. The ensuing weeks will forever be connected to his personal idea of hell. He almost died here. He almost gave up on himself. 

And yet, in spite of all the suffering, he will also remember Saint Christian as a sanctuary, a sacred place that held him with love, faith and endless care. Skilled hands, gentle voices, kind eyes and a soothing touch - those are the memories he will pitch against the pain and the blood and the demons. 

He is a little afraid of the small voice in the back of his head that still whispers sweet seductions at him, at night, when he’s alone with himself, when there is nothing to distract him. Back in Paris, with its apothecaries and its dark alleys, small bottles changing hands for a pouch full of coins, it will be harder to resist. Very hard, as he remembers all too well, and the thought of fighting that bone-deep urge, all the time, every day, for weeks and months to come is _exhausting_. But he is not the same man he was back then. He is a Musketeer, he has brothers now who have his back, and Aramis has made him promise to let him know when the whispers become too loud and he cannot fight them on his own. 

“I’ve got something for you.”

Sister Marie has appeared behind him, and when he turns she pushes a parcel into his arms, wrapped in a piece of cloth. From its shape and weight he can tell that it’s a book.

“What is it?”

“Poetry. Latin. I think it will be to your liking.”

Carefully, Athos unwraps the book and reads the embossed author name. “Catullus. I’ve not heard of him.” 

Poetry had only been a very small part of his education, to cover what would be expected of him in society. His father had always considered it a silly feminine interest rather than a field of knowledge suitable for a comte. 

“Let me know what you think when you’ve finished it,” Sister Marie says. “Write. I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts.”

There is a question in the nun’s shining eyes. Without any of them ever putting it into words, a friendship has developed between Athos and her. She is a fascinating woman - intelligent, strong-willed, competent and with a keen intellect that sparks at every opportunity to add to her knowledge. An attractive woman, too, even with the ten years she has on Athos and first creases on her freckled face, but that is not what Athos is interested in. At the garrison, he is surrounded by men with military talent and a solid education. What he misses, sometimes, is a mindset more attuned to his own, with a broader horizon. He can discuss religion or medicine with Aramis, politics with Treville, and d’Artagnan is a surprising treasure trove when it comes to anything related to farming - botany, financial management, horse training. But philosophy? History? Languages? Literature? They are blank spaces in a soldier’s body of thought and an undernourished part of his brain that sometimes throbs with the phantom pain of disuse.

In Sister Marie, he’s recognized a kindred soul, and he secretly regrets that their conversation has to end when it has only just begun; when he’s just been given the ability back to _have_ a conversation. Her gift - the book - and her request for a response is a silent inquiry: Does he wish to continue their dialogue, at least by letter? Does he want to develop their tentative friendship? 

Re-wrapping the book, Athos nods and stows it in his saddle bag.

“It will be my pleasure to read it. And I will write. I promise.” 

From the way her eyes light up at his reply, he can tell she knows that he means it.

And then it is time to say goodbye.

Aramis, ever the tactile one, initiates a round of hugs and handshakes and fond brushes over heads and arms that even the bashful nuns can’t escape. A considerable throng of them has gathered in the courtyard to see them off. Two young novices turn their faces away, hiding a giggle when Aramis bids them farewell with a flourishing bow and doffing his hat.

“Ladies,” he drawls, clearly enjoying the effect his performance has on the young women.

The Mother Superior tuts and seems to be torn between slapping him up the side of his head and enfolding him in a hug. 

“Aramis…” Athos gives the marksman a side-eye but isn’t quite able to suppress a smirk.

Aramis clicks his tongue and winks at him, then he mounts his horse in exaggerated fashion, eliciting a massive eye-roll from Porthos and a laugh from d’Artagnan.

“This is it, then,” says Sister Marie.

Athos trains his gaze back on her. Fondness for Aramis and his none-too-subtle effort at lightening the mood mixes with the glum feeling of letting go.  
“Yes,” he says. “This is it.” 

He holds her eyes as he reaches for her hand, bends and lifts it to his lips to plant a kiss on its back. She doesn’t pull back, simply accepts the gesture and acknowledges it with a head dip.

“Thank you,” he adds, releasing her hand again and standing. “For everything. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Lieutenant. Look after yourself.” She smiles.

Athos turns away from her, grabs the pommel and pulls himself up onto his horse, sorting out the array of weapons attached to his belt until he sits comfortably. Reins in one hand, he shoves his hips forward and digs his heels into the stallion’s sides, setting him into motion until he’s lined up with d’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis on their respective mounts. One gloved hand at the rim of his hat, he cants it in a final gesture of farewell to the small group of nuns.

“YEEHAW!”

D’Artagnan’s cry is made of pure energy as he effortlessly spurs his grey into a canter and is the first one out of the gate. With a slap of his reins and an encouraging grunt, Porthos and his gelding follow suit, and Aramis, of course, makes a show of sending his own black beast into a dramatic prance before cantering off. Athos huffs and, after a last look back, presses his calves to his stallion’s flanks and takes after his brothers, the wind billowing his cloak as he speeds up, a grin bursting into existence on his healed face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Whatever plotholes I've left will remain unfilled. Whatever I screwed up will stay screwed up. The epilogue that'll follow won't change that this is where the actual story ends. What's left will just be a little more closure, a bit of ruminating and a last wistful look at our boys back at the garrison. Sniff.
> 
> I think I need a moment.


	22. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No reason to delay this any further. With this epilogue, I'm letting my story go.
> 
> *deep breath*

Captain Treville, leaning on the wooden railing of the walkway outside his office, lets his clear blue eyes sweep over the clashing and battering of today’s sword practice currently taking place in the garrison’s training grounds. One pair of Musketeers in particular catches his attention. 

Athos is at it with d’Artagnan, clearly teaching the boy a lesson. Metal screeches against metal as the older man parries a blow and answers with a flurry of swift and exact strikes until he has the Gascon down on the ground, disarming him with a flick of his wrist. Although it doesn’t show to the untrained eye, Treville knows it’s a hard-won victory. His lieutenant hides it well, but one week after his return from Saint Christian, he is still not functioning at full capacity. Nobody expects it of him, least of all Treville who is relieved to have Athos back at all and in one piece. But Athos expects it of himself and does what he can to conceal the slight tremble in his arms, the occasional misstep and his little gasps for air when his strength wanes during an extended duel. So far, he’s compensated for his weakness with perfect technique and efficiency of movement, using strategies that will end a fight in the shortest amount of time to spare his limited energy. 

Treville smirks when d’Artagnan, too frustrated to notice his mentor’s wavering stamina, flings his rapier aside and punches an innocent sack of grain after hoisting himself to his feet.

“Don’t say it,” he snaps at Athos, one flat hand up. “ _Head over heart_. I know.”

“ _Knowing_ will not help you win,” Athos replies in that admonitory, paternal tone he reserves for the young Gascon. “Only _using_ your head will!” In an unusually affectionate gesture, he ruffles his hand through d’Artagnan’s hair to underline his words and smirks when the lad bats it away.

“The day will come when I beat you,” d’Artagnan says, dark eyes flashing, not angry with Athos, but with himself.

“I don’t doubt it,” Treville hears Athos reply evenly. “But today is not that day.”

He picks up d’Artagnan’s discarded rapier and hands it to the lad.

“And now let’s do this again.”

While Treville watches them repeat the exercise, Athos willing his tired body through the moves, he lets his mind wander. He had been incredibly relieved when news had arrived from Saint Christian that his second in command was finally recovering. If it hadn’t been for the delicate situation in Paris after Cardinal Richelieu’s death and a diplomatic crisis arising with England, he would’ve been at Athos’ side directly after learning about his serious condition. But the King had refused to let him leave, and it had been his duty to stay.

So when Athos, flanked by Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan, had ridden back into the garrison seven days ago, it had taken Treville every ounce of self-restraint not to hurry down the stairs and clutch the man to his chest in front of the whole regiment. He had hugged his former protégé, later, in the privacy of his office, formally, quickly and slapping his back, not betraying his true emotions. Athos had once come to the Musketeers like an orphaned stray, and Treville has no illusions about the father feelings the young and clearly forlorn lad had provoked in him. Pride mainly outweighs worry these days with Athos having proven himself worthy of his captain’s trust and belief in his abilities, but those last two months, riddled with bad news from Saint Christian, have cost Treville a boatload of new grey hairs and several years of his life.

Looking at Athos now, at his efficient moves and expert command of the blade, his second in command seems well on his way back to his old self. And yet, there are changes. 

Treville has noticed that he never sees Athos by himself. One of them - Porthos, Aramis or d’Artagnan - are always with him. When Athos shows up for morning muster, he arrives in the company of either of the three, suggesting that - since all of them except for the lieutenant have their rooms at the garrison - they alternate sleeping at Athos’ apartment to keep an eye on him. They don’t talk about it, and Treville doesn’t ask. Something similar has happened before, after Savoy, when Porthos and Athos glued themselves to a struggling Aramis like moss on a tree. It had worked, back then, and Treville assumes that whatever ghosts are coming after his recovering lieutenant now, the presence of his three friends will help chase them away.

D’Artagnan’s position within that foursome has shifted as well. He remains their youngster, and Athos is taking his role as the Gascon’s mentor more seriously than ever, but aside from still improving his soldiering skills, he no longer walks one step behind the three older men, but as an equal among them. Somehow, in the aftermath of Athos’ injury, he’s slotted himself into the brotherhood of the _Inseparables_ like the fourth leaf of a clover. It just _fits_.

Athos, too, has changed, and not so much physically. In fact, his terrible ordeal has barely left a mark on him. There is a new, fine scar above his left eye that can only be seen from up close. His broken jaw, however, may as well have been a myth. There is no difference between the right side of his face and the left, no disfigurement, no lump, no trace of a break. When Treville saw Athos laugh at one of Porthos’ jokes on the previous day (when did Athos start _laughing_?), he’d noticed a gap in his teeth - sole evidence of the heavy musket’s impact on his cheek. 

If he looks closely, sometimes the captain thinks he sees something flicker in his lieutenant’s gaze, something unsettling, a _hunger_ that seems less about catching up on all the food he’s missed with his jaw bound shut, but about something else, something Treville can’t fathom and which is stilled by the _Inseparables_ in low voices, hands reassuringly placed on Athos’ arms, a mug of strong herbal tea placed in front of him, conjured out of seemingly nowhere. Sometimes, they disappear with him, and when they return, Athos’ eyes are red and his hands are shaking a bit, but he picks up his duties where he’s left off, and none of them make a fuss about it. Again, Treville doesn’t ask. Whatever it is - they’re handling it, and he has no cause to interfere.

Less evident, but more important, are the changes in the four Musketeers’ friendship. Unquestionable loyalty and trust were a given between the _Inseparables_ even before Athos’ ordeal. But now, there’s a new intimacy between the four of them. Athos in particular, always one to seek reclusion and privacy, isn’t only tolerating his brother’s permanent closeness, he’s _looking_ for it. Regularly, Treville sees his lieutenant sling an arm over Porthos’ shoulders, place a hand on d’Artagnan’s neck, pull Aramis in for the occasional half-hug. And there is an eternal conversation going on between the four of them - an endless string of banter, of serious discussions and - this is new - of conspiratorial hand signs contributing to the four’s secret language of raised eyebrows and meaningful glances that leave the other men baffled and clueless. 

Whatever happened at the convent, however terrifying those long weeks may have been - his Musketeer quartet has come out the other end forged into a brotherhood stronger than ever. As Treville watches Athos help d’Artagnan back to his feet after another lost duel, sees Aramis come over to covertly check on his lieutenant and Porthos grab their youngster’s neck, teasing him fondly, the captain is sure that a few more grey hairs and a couple days less to his lifespan have been a price worth paying.

 

#### ~ Fin ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Papa Treville gets to have the last word. Don't know if you guys agree, but I liked the idea of his outside view on Athos and the others, particularly since he hadn't been with them for the whole journey. He only sees the results. 
> 
> I had meant to build a few lines into this chapter (or the previous one) to explain the title of this whole beast of a story, but the right moment never presented itself, and by now I think it's pretty self-explanatory what I meant by it. Please let me know if I'm wrong.
> 
> This is the moment where I thank all of you who've read, loved and commented. Without your kind words, biscuits and mugs of tea, this story never would have been completed. This is a great little community, and it's been a pleasure communicating back and forth with you guys.
> 
> XOXOXO


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